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he said,
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No speaker
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his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun'
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her, the tears dropping from his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun' to come out all right."
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It all seems perfectly plain, and Mr. Oakley knows better than any of us, you know." Fannie, her last hope gone, flung herself on the floor, crying, "O Gawd! O Gawd! he 's gone fu' sho'!" Her husband bent over her, the tears dropping from his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun' to come out all right." She raised her head, and seizing his manacled hands pressed them to her breast, wailing in a low monotone, "Gone! gone!" They disengaged her hands, and led Berry away. "Take her out," said Oakley sternly to the servants; and they
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into the hall. Fannie hardly saw them as she dashed among them, crying for her mistress. In a moment she returned, dragging Mrs. Oakley by the hand. "Tell 'em, oh, tell 'em, Miss Leslie, dat you don't believe it. Don't let 'em 'rest Berry." "Why, Fannie, I can't do anything. It all seems perfectly plain, and Mr. Oakley knows better than any of us, you know." Fannie, her last hope gone, flung herself on the floor, crying, "O Gawd! O Gawd! he 's gone fu' sho'!" Her husband bent over her, the tears dropping from his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun' to come out all right." She raised her head, and seizing his manacled hands pressed them to her breast, wailing in a low monotone, "Gone! gone!" They disengaged her hands, and led Berry away. "Take her out," said Oakley sternly to the servants; and they lifted her up and carried her away in a sort of dumb stupor that was half a swoon. They took her to her little cottage, and laid her down until she could come to herself and the full horror of her situation burst upon her. V THE JUSTICE OF MEN
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all dese yeahs counted fu', I wish I had a-stoled it." Oakley made a step forward, and his man did likewise, but the officer stepped between them. "Take that damned hound away, or, by God! I 'll do him violence!" The two men stood fiercely facing each other, then the handcuffs were snapped on the servant's wrist. "No, no," shrieked Fannie, "you must n't, you must n't. Oh, my Gawd! he ain 't no thief. I 'll go to Mis' Oakley. She nevah will believe it." She sped from the room. The commotion had called a crowd of curious servants into the hall. Fannie hardly saw them as she dashed among them, crying for her mistress. In a moment she returned, dragging Mrs. Oakley by the hand. "Tell 'em, oh, tell 'em, Miss Leslie, dat you don't believe it. Don't let 'em 'rest Berry." "Why, Fannie, I can't do anything. It all seems perfectly plain, and Mr. Oakley knows better than any of us, you know." Fannie, her last hope gone, flung herself on the floor, crying, "O Gawd! O Gawd! he 's gone fu' sho'!" Her husband bent over her, the tears dropping from his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun' to come out all right." She raised her head, and seizing his manacled hands pressed them to her breast, wailing in a low monotone, "Gone! gone!" They disengaged her hands, and led Berry away. "Take her out," said Oakley sternly to the servants; and they lifted her up and carried her away in a sort of dumb stupor that was half a swoon. They took her to her little cottage, and laid her down until she could come to herself and the full horror of her situation burst upon her. V THE JUSTICE OF MEN The arrest of Berry Hamilton on the charge preferred by his employer was the cause of unusual commotion in the town. Both the accuser and the accused were well known to the citizens, white and black,--Maurice Oakley as a solid man of business, and Berry as an honest, sensible negro, and the pink of good servants. The evening papers had a full story of the crime, which closed by saying that the prisoner had amassed a considerable sum of money, it was very likely from a long series of smaller peculations. It seems a strange irony upon the force of
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soon." Fannie was summoned, and when the matter was explained to her, first gave evidences of giving way to grief, but when the detective began to question her, she calmed herself and answered directly just as her husband had. "Well posted," sneered Oakley. "Arrest that man." Berry had begun to look more hopeful during Fannie's recital, but now the ashen look came back into his face. At the word "arrest" his wife collapsed utterly, and sobbed on her husband's shoulder. "Send the woman away." "I won't go," cried Fannie stoutly; "I 'll stay right hyeah by my husband. You sha'n't drive me away f'om him." Berry turned to his employer. "You b'lieve dat I stole f'om dis house aftah all de yeahs I 've been in it, aftah de caih I took of yo' money an' yo' valybles, aftah de way I 've put you to bed f'om many a dinnah, an' you woke up to fin' all yo' money safe? Now, can you b'lieve dis?" His voice broke, and he ended with a cry. "Yes, I believe it, you thief, yes. Take him away." Berry's eyes were bloodshot as he replied, "Den, damn you! damn you! ef dat 's all dese yeahs counted fu', I wish I had a-stoled it." Oakley made a step forward, and his man did likewise, but the officer stepped between them. "Take that damned hound away, or, by God! I 'll do him violence!" The two men stood fiercely facing each other, then the handcuffs were snapped on the servant's wrist. "No, no," shrieked Fannie, "you must n't, you must n't. Oh, my Gawd! he ain 't no thief. I 'll go to Mis' Oakley. She nevah will believe it." She sped from the room. The commotion had called a crowd of curious servants into the hall. Fannie hardly saw them as she dashed among them, crying for her mistress. In a moment she returned, dragging Mrs. Oakley by the hand. "Tell 'em, oh, tell 'em, Miss Leslie, dat you don't believe it. Don't let 'em 'rest Berry." "Why, Fannie, I can't do anything. It all seems perfectly plain, and Mr. Oakley knows better than any of us, you know." Fannie, her last hope gone, flung herself on the floor, crying, "O Gawd! O Gawd! he 's gone fu' sho'!" Her husband bent over her, the tears dropping from his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun' to come out all right." She raised her head, and seizing his manacled hands pressed them to her breast, wailing in a low monotone, "Gone! gone!" They disengaged her hands, and led Berry away. "Take her out," said Oakley sternly to the servants; and they lifted her up and carried her away in a sort of dumb stupor that was half a swoon. They took her to her little cottage, and laid her down until she could come to herself and the full horror of her situation burst upon her. V THE JUSTICE OF MEN The arrest of Berry Hamilton on the charge preferred by his employer was the cause of unusual commotion in the town. Both the accuser and the accused were well known to the citizens, white and black,--Maurice Oakley as a solid man of business, and Berry as an honest, sensible negro, and the pink of good servants. The evening papers had a full story of the crime, which closed by saying that the prisoner had amassed a considerable sum of money, it was very likely from a long series of smaller peculations. It seems a strange irony upon the force of right living, that this man, who had never been arrested before, who had never even been suspected of wrong-doing, should find so few who even at the first telling doubted the story of his guilt. Many people began to remember things that had looked particularly suspicious in his dealings. Some others said, "I did n't think it of him." There were only a few who dared to say, "I don't believe it of him." The first act of his lodge, "The Tribe of Benjamin," whose treasurer he was, was to have his accounts audited, when they should have been visiting him with comfort, and they seemed personally grieved when his books were found to be straight. The A. M. E. church, of which he had been an honest and active member, hastened to disavow sympathy with him, and to purge itself of contamination by turning him out. His friends were afraid to visit him and were silent when his enemies gloated. On every side one might have asked, Where is charity? and gone away empty. In the black people of the town the strong influence of slavery was still operative, and with one accord they turned away from one of
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said the officer. Oakley nodded. Berry was looking distressed and excited. He seemed not to understand it at all. "Berry," the officer pursued, "you admit having deposited five hundred dollars in the bank yesterday?" "Sut'ny. Dey ain't no reason why I should n't admit it, 'ceptin' erroun' ermong dese jealous niggahs." "Uh huh! well, now, where did you get this money?" "Why, I wo'ked fu' it, o' co'se, whaih you s'pose I got it? 'T ain't drappin' off trees, I reckon, not roun' dis pa't of de country." "You worked for it? You must have done a pretty big job to have got so much money all in a lump?" "But I did n't git it in a lump. Why, man, I 've been savin' dat money fu mo'n fo' yeahs." "More than four years? Why did n't you put it in the bank as you got it?" "Why, mos'ly it was too small, an' so I des' kep' it in a ol' sock. I tol' Fannie dat some day ef de bank did n't bus' wid all de res' I had, I 'd put it in too. She was allus sayin' it was too much to have layin' 'roun' de house. But I des' tol' huh dat no robber was n't goin' to bothah de po' niggah down in de ya'd wid de rich white man up at de house. But fin'lly I listened to huh an' sposited it yistiddy." "You 're a liar! you 're a liar, you black thief!" Oakley broke in impetuously. "You have learned your lesson well, but you can't cheat me. I know where that money came from." "Calm yourself, Mr. Oakley, calm yourself." "I will not calm myself. Take him away. He shall not stand here and lie to me." Berry had suddenly turned ashen. "You say you know whaih dat money come f'om? Whaih?" "You stole it, you thief, from my brother Frank's room." "Stole it! My Gawd, Mistah Oakley, you believed a thing lak dat aftah all de yeahs I been wid you?" "You 've been stealing all along." "Why, what shell I do?" said the servant helplessly. "I tell you, Mistah Oakley, ask Fannie. She 'll know how long I been a-savin' dis money." "I 'll ask no one." "I think it would be better to call his wife, Oakley." "Well, call her, but let this matter be done with soon." Fannie was summoned, and when the matter was explained to her, first gave evidences of giving way to grief, but when the detective began to question her, she calmed herself and answered directly just as her husband had. "Well posted," sneered Oakley. "Arrest that man." Berry had begun to look more hopeful during Fannie's recital, but now the ashen look came back into his face. At the word "arrest" his wife collapsed utterly, and sobbed on her husband's shoulder. "Send the woman away." "I won't go," cried Fannie stoutly; "I 'll stay right hyeah by my husband. You sha'n't drive me away f'om him." Berry turned to his employer. "You b'lieve dat I stole f'om dis house aftah all de yeahs I 've been in it, aftah de caih I took of yo' money an' yo' valybles, aftah de way I 've put you to bed f'om many a dinnah, an' you woke up to fin' all yo' money safe? Now, can you b'lieve dis?" His voice broke, and he ended with a cry. "Yes, I believe it, you thief, yes. Take him away." Berry's eyes were bloodshot as he replied, "Den, damn you! damn you! ef dat 's all dese yeahs counted fu', I wish I had a-stoled it." Oakley made a step forward, and his man did likewise, but the officer stepped between them. "Take that damned hound away, or, by God! I 'll do him violence!" The two men stood fiercely facing each other, then the handcuffs were snapped on the servant's wrist. "No, no," shrieked Fannie, "you must n't, you must n't. Oh, my Gawd! he ain 't no thief. I 'll go to Mis' Oakley. She nevah will believe it." She sped from the room. The commotion had called a crowd of curious servants into the hall. Fannie hardly saw them as she dashed among them, crying for her mistress. In a moment she returned, dragging Mrs. Oakley by the hand. "Tell 'em, oh, tell 'em, Miss Leslie, dat you don't believe it. Don't let 'em 'rest Berry." "Why, Fannie, I can't do anything. It all seems perfectly plain, and Mr. Oakley knows better than any of us, you know." Fannie, her last hope gone, flung herself on the floor, crying, "O Gawd! O Gawd! he 's gone fu' sho'!" Her husband bent over her, the tears dropping from his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun' to come out all right." She raised her head, and seizing his manacled hands pressed them to her breast, wailing in a low monotone, "Gone! gone!" They disengaged her hands, and led Berry away. "Take her out," said Oakley sternly to the servants; and they lifted her up and carried her away in a sort of dumb stupor that was half a swoon. They took her to her little cottage, and laid her down until she could come to herself and the full horror of her situation burst upon her. V THE JUSTICE OF MEN The arrest of Berry Hamilton on the charge preferred by his employer was the cause of unusual commotion in the town. Both the accuser and the accused were well known to the citizens, white and black,--Maurice Oakley as a solid man of business, and Berry as an honest, sensible negro, and the pink of good servants. The evening papers had a full story of the crime, which closed by saying that the prisoner had amassed a considerable sum of money, it was very likely from a long series of smaller peculations. It seems a strange irony upon the force of right living, that this man, who had never been arrested before, who had never even been suspected of wrong-doing, should find so few who even at the first telling doubted the story of his guilt. Many people began to remember things that had looked particularly suspicious in his dealings. Some others said, "I did n't think it of him." There were only a few who dared to say, "I don't believe it of him." The first act of his lodge, "The Tribe of Benjamin," whose treasurer he was, was to have his accounts audited, when they should have been visiting him with comfort, and they seemed personally grieved when his books were found to be straight. The A. M. E. church, of which he had been an honest and active member, hastened to disavow sympathy with him, and to purge itself of contamination by turning him out. His friends were afraid to visit him and were silent when his enemies gloated. On every side one might have asked, Where is charity? and gone away empty. In the black people of the town the strong influence of slavery was still operative, and with one accord they turned away from one of their own kind upon whom had been set the ban of the white people's displeasure. If they had sympathy, they dared not show it. Their own interests, the safety of their own positions and firesides, demanded that they stand aloof from the criminal. Not then, not now, nor has it ever been true, although it has been claimed, that negroes either harbour or sympathise with the criminal of their kind. They did not dare to do it before the sixties. They do not dare to do it now. They have brought down as a heritage from the days of their bondage both fear and disloyalty. So Berry was unbefriended while the storm raged around him. The cell where they had placed him was kind to him, and he could not hear the envious and sneering comments that went on about him. This was kind, for the tongues of his enemies were not. "Tell me, tell me," said one, "you need n't tell me dat a bird kin fly so high dat he don' have to come down some time. An' w'en he do light, honey, my Lawd, how he flop!" "Mistah Rich Niggah," said another. "He wanted to dress his wife an' chillen lak white folks, did he? Well, he foun' out, he foun' out. By de time de jedge git thoo wid him he won't be hol'in' his haid so high." "Wy, dat gal o' his'n," broke in old Isaac Brown indignantly, "w'y, she would n' speak to my gal, Minty, when she met huh on de street. I reckon she come down off'n huh high hoss now." The fact of the matter was that Minty Brown was no better than she should have been, and did not deserve to be spoken to. But none of this was taken into account either by the speaker or the hearers. The man was down, it was time to strike. The women too joined their shrill voices to the general cry, and were loud in their abuse of the Hamiltons and in disparagement of their high-toned airs. "I knowed it, I knowed it," mumbled one old crone, rolling her bleared and jealous eyes with glee. "W'enevah you see niggahs gittin' so high dat dey own folks ain' good enough fu' 'em, look out." "W'y, la, Aunt Chloe I knowed it too. Dem people got so owdacious proud dat dey would n't walk
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been wid you?" "You 've been stealing all along." "Why, what shell I do?" said the servant helplessly. "I tell you, Mistah Oakley, ask Fannie. She 'll know how long I been a-savin' dis money." "I 'll ask no one." "I think it would be better to call his wife, Oakley." "Well, call her, but let this matter be done with soon." Fannie was summoned, and when the matter was explained to her, first gave evidences of giving way to grief, but when the detective began to question her, she calmed herself and answered directly just as her husband had. "Well posted," sneered Oakley. "Arrest that man." Berry had begun to look more hopeful during Fannie's recital, but now the ashen look came back into his face. At the word "arrest" his wife collapsed utterly, and sobbed on her husband's shoulder. "Send the woman away." "I won't go," cried Fannie stoutly; "I 'll stay right hyeah by my husband. You sha'n't drive me away f'om him." Berry turned to his employer. "You b'lieve dat I stole f'om dis house aftah all de yeahs I 've been in it, aftah de caih I took of yo' money an' yo' valybles, aftah de way I 've put you to bed f'om many a dinnah, an' you woke up to fin' all yo' money safe? Now, can you b'lieve dis?" His voice broke, and he ended with a cry. "Yes, I believe it, you thief, yes. Take him away." Berry's eyes were bloodshot as he replied, "Den, damn you! damn you! ef dat 's all dese yeahs counted fu', I wish I had a-stoled it." Oakley made a step forward, and his man did likewise, but the officer stepped between them. "Take that damned hound away, or, by God! I 'll do him violence!" The two men stood fiercely facing each other, then the handcuffs were snapped on the servant's wrist. "No, no," shrieked Fannie, "you must n't, you must n't. Oh, my Gawd! he ain 't no thief. I 'll go to Mis' Oakley. She nevah will believe it." She sped from the room. The commotion had called a crowd of curious servants into the hall. Fannie hardly saw them as she dashed among them, crying for her mistress. In a moment she returned, dragging Mrs. Oakley by the hand. "Tell 'em, oh, tell 'em, Miss Leslie, dat you don't believe it. Don't let 'em 'rest Berry." "Why, Fannie, I can't do anything. It all seems perfectly plain, and Mr. Oakley knows better than any of us, you know." Fannie, her last hope gone, flung herself on the floor, crying, "O Gawd! O Gawd! he 's gone fu' sho'!" Her husband bent over her, the tears dropping from his eyes. "Nevah min', Fannie,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"nevah min'. Hit 's boun' to come out all right." She raised her head, and seizing his manacled hands pressed them to her breast, wailing in a low monotone, "Gone! gone!" They disengaged her hands, and led Berry away. "Take her out," said Oakley sternly to the servants; and they lifted her up and carried her away in a sort of dumb stupor that was half a swoon. They took her to her little cottage, and laid her down until she could come to herself and the full horror of her situation burst upon her. V THE JUSTICE OF MEN The arrest of Berry Hamilton on the charge preferred by his employer was the cause of unusual commotion in the town. Both the accuser and the accused were well known to the citizens, white and black,--Maurice Oakley as a solid man of business, and Berry as an honest, sensible negro, and the pink of good servants. The evening papers had a full story of the crime, which closed by saying that the prisoner had amassed a considerable sum of money, it was very likely from a long series of smaller peculations. It seems a strange irony upon the force of right living, that this man, who had never been arrested before, who had never even been suspected of wrong-doing, should find so few who even at the first telling doubted the story of his guilt. Many people began to remember things that had looked particularly suspicious in his dealings. Some others said, "I did n't think it of him." There were only a few who dared to say, "I don't believe it of him." The first act of his lodge, "The Tribe of Benjamin," whose treasurer he was, was to have his accounts audited, when they should have been visiting him with comfort, and they seemed personally grieved when his books were found to be straight. The A. M. E. church, of which he had been an honest and active member, hastened to disavow sympathy with him, and to purge itself of contamination by turning him out. His friends were afraid to visit him and were silent when his enemies gloated. On every side one might have asked, Where is charity? and gone away empty. In the black people of the town the strong influence of slavery was still operative, and with one accord they turned away from one of their own kind upon whom had been set the ban of the white people's displeasure. If they had sympathy, they dared not show it. Their own interests, the safety of their own positions and firesides, demanded that they stand aloof from the criminal. Not then, not now, nor has it ever been true, although it has been claimed, that negroes either harbour or sympathise with the criminal of their kind. They did not dare to do it before the sixties. They do not dare to do it now. They have brought down as a heritage from the days of their bondage both fear and disloyalty. So Berry was unbefriended while the storm raged around him. The cell where they had placed him was kind to him, and he could not hear the envious and sneering comments that went on about him. This was kind, for the
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The Sport Of The Gods
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replied Harriet rather solemnly.
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No speaker
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"There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty
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Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be
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their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his
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of being silent. You must see the difference." "Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty." "Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive,
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such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference." "Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty." "Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb _us_." "I wonder he did not remember the book" "--was all Harriet's answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning was, "In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr. Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which
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of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility." "To be sure," said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here." "Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference." "Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty." "Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb _us_." "I wonder he did not remember the book" "--was all Harriet's answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning was, "In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr. Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_, because there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?" She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable. Mr. Elton was the
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a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it." Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own. They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was. They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose. "Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?" "He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility." "To be sure," said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here." "Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference." "Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty." "Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb _us_." "I wonder he did not remember the book" "--was all Harriet's answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning was, "In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr. Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_, because there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?" She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable. Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young farmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body else must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet's coming to Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of its expediency. Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world. She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be little doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual weight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned very handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her, there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense with:--but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by Mr. Elton's admiration. CHAPTER V "I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing." "A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?" "I think they will neither of them do the other any good." "You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been
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for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here." "Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference." "Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty." "Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed,"<|quote|>replied Harriet rather solemnly.</|quote|>"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb _us_." "I wonder he did not remember the book" "--was all Harriet's answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning was, "In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr. Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_, because there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On
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Emma
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"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."
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Emma
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this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder
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powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of
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Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it! "She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always
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such real, generous affection." Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it! "She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any
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do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer. "She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--" "To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection." Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it! "She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But" (with a reproachful smile at Emma) "she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting." "I should not wonder," said
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done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs. Elton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!" Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss Woodhouse." The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done. She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer. "She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--" "To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection." Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it! "She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But" (with a reproachful smile at Emma) "she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting." "I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change." Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats
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are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more than I can express." "You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any of Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than" "-- "My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to act. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_ have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least inconvenient.--I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_ than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been used to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--for we do not at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.--However, my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her shortly.--I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of either but what is highly conciliating.--I shall have her very often indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties." "Poor Jane Fairfax!"--thought Emma.--"You have not deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs. Elton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!" Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss Woodhouse." The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done. She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer. "She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--" "To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection." Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it! "She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But" (with a reproachful smile at Emma) "she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting." "I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change." Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say. "Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her." "And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--" "And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other." Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered, "Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago." He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on-- "That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall never ask her." Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim, "You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you." He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, "So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?" "No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married." Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was,
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shall have her very often indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties." "Poor Jane Fairfax!"--thought Emma.--"You have not deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs. Elton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!" Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss Woodhouse." The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done. She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer. "She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--" "To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection." Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it! "She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.<|quote|>"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."</|quote|>Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But" (with a reproachful smile at Emma) "she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting." "I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change." Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts,
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Emma
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she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.
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No speaker
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it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me
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under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head
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you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist;
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her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No,
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mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No,
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a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on
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of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation. "I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak. "A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered
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it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go,"<|quote|>she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist.</|quote|>"Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in
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The Age Of Innocence
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"That's a fine fellow,"
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Mr. Losberne
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went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall
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when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when
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young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle,
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the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you
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resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?" said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. "Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!" "You will tell me a different tale one of these days," said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. "I hope I may have good cause to do so," replied Mr. Losberne; "though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled
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you now, indeed." "I ask one promise," said Harry. "Once, and only once more, say within a year, but it may be much sooner, I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time." "Not to press me to alter my right determination," replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; "it will be useless." "No," said Harry; "to hear you repeat it, if you will finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it." "Then let it be so," rejoined Rose; "it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better." She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES "And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?" said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. "Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!" "You will tell me a different tale one of these days," said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. "I hope I may have good cause to do so," replied Mr. Losberne; "though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man; "and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?" "Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener,
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proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother's place. In a word," said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, "there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me." "One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!" cried Harry, throwing himself before her. "If I had been less less fortunate, the world would call it if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny if I had been poor, sick, helpless would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?" "Do not press me to reply," answered Rose. "The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it." "If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is," retorted Harry, "it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!" "Then, if your lot had been differently cast," rejoined Rose; "if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier." Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her. "I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger," said Rose, extending her hand. "I must leave you now, indeed." "I ask one promise," said Harry. "Once, and only once more, say within a year, but it may be much sooner, I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time." "Not to press me to alter my right determination," replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; "it will be useless." "No," said Harry; "to hear you repeat it, if you will finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it." "Then let it be so," rejoined Rose; "it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better." She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES "And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?" said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. "Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!" "You will tell me a different tale one of these days," said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. "I hope I may have good cause to do so," replied Mr. Losberne; "though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man; "and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?" "Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. "He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad." Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy. CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining
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and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!" "Then, if your lot had been differently cast," rejoined Rose; "if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier." Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her. "I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger," said Rose, extending her hand. "I must leave you now, indeed." "I ask one promise," said Harry. "Once, and only once more, say within a year, but it may be much sooner, I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time." "Not to press me to alter my right determination," replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; "it will be useless." "No," said Harry; "to hear you repeat it, if you will finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it." "Then let it be so," rejoined Rose; "it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better." She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES "And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?" said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. "Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!" "You will tell me a different tale one of these days," said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. "I hope I may have good cause to do so," replied Mr. Losberne; "though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.<|quote|>"That's a fine fellow,"</|quote|>said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man; "and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?" "Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry
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Oliver Twist
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"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"
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Mr. Losberne
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gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well,
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replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering
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"Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. "Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?" said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at
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multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. "Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?" said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he
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am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. "Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?" said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their
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would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother," said the young man. "Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it." "How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?" "No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. "Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?" said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before
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on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so." "Mother," said the young man, impatiently, "he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus." "You think so now, Harry," replied his mother. "And ever will!" said the young man. "The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little." "Harry," said Mrs. Maylie, "it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now." "Let it rest with Rose, then," interposed Harry. "You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?" "I will not," rejoined Mrs. Maylie; "but I would have you consider" "I _have_ considered!" was the impatient reply; "Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me." "She shall," said Mrs. Maylie. "There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother," said the young man. "Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it." "How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?" "No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. "Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?" said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need. Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision. It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as
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have you consider" "I _have_ considered!" was the impatient reply; "Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me." "She shall," said Mrs. Maylie. "There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother," said the young man. "Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it." "How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?" "No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. "Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?" said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor,<|quote|>"I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"</|quote|>"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need. Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from
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Oliver Twist
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cried Edna, impatiently.
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No speaker
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long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when."
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wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You
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fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that
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began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to
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know that I see his letters?" "Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him." "Why do you show me his letters, then?" "Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me he would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion." "Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a
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know how it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself. "I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Edna exclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and be merry for once." And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being. If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letter unsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted her while the young woman read the letter. The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and handed it to Edna. "Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?" "Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him." "Why do you show me his letters, then?" "Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me he would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion." "Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she
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her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. "Aren't you astonished?" "Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father in Mississippi? where?" "Just two steps away," laughed Edna, "in a little four-room house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and it's for rent. I'm tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It's too much trouble. I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them." "That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling me lies. I don't know your reason, but you have not told me the truth." Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. "The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn't that enough reason?" "They are your husband's," returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. "Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother's estate, which my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will come stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the feeling of freedom and independence." "What does your husband say?" "I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so." Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear to me," she said. Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself. "I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Edna exclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and be merry for once." And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being. If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letter unsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted her while the young woman read the letter. The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and handed it to Edna. "Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?" "Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him." "Why do you show me his letters, then?" "Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me he would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion." "Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. XXVII "What is the matter with you?" asked Arobin that evening. "I never found you in such a happy mood." Edna was tired by that time, and was reclining on the lounge before the fire. "Don't you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun pretty soon?" "Well, that ought to be reason enough," he acquiesced. "You wouldn't give me another if I sat here all night imploring you." He sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. "One of these days," she said, "I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it." "Don't. What's the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are." His fingers strayed occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a little full and double. "Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. Spare yourself the effort." "No; I
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stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and handed it to Edna. "Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?" "Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him." "Why do you show me his letters, then?" "Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy and exultation. "Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?" "That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not come long ago." "But when, when?"<|quote|>cried Edna, impatiently.</|quote|>"He does not say when." "He says very soon.' You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the letter." "But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought" and she snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, looking for the reason, which was left untold. "If I were young and in love with a man," said Mademoiselle, turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, "it seems to me he would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion." "Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. Why," went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into Mademoiselle's twisted face, "do you suppose a woman knows why she loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: Go to! Here is a distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in love with him.' Or, I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is on every tongue?' Or, This financier, who controls the world's money markets?'" "You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love with Robert?" "Yes," said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. "Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?" Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. "Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because" "Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. "What will you do when he comes back?" she asked. "Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive." She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. She stopped at a confectioner's and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that
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The Awakening
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replied the emperor,
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No speaker
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offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied
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you some employ when opportunity offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our
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said Prince Bahman, "we are the sons of the late intendant of your majesty's gardens, and live in a house which he built a little before he died, till we should be fit to serve your majesty and ask of you some employ when opportunity offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our common exercise, and what none of your majesty's subjects who intend to bear arms in your armies, ought, according to the ancient custom of the kingdom, to neglect." The emperor, charmed with so prudent an answer, said: "Since it is
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rise. The princes rose up and stood before him with an easy and graceful air, accompanied with modest countenances. The emperor took some time to view them before he spoke, and after he had admired their good air and mien, asked them who they were and where they lived. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we are the sons of the late intendant of your majesty's gardens, and live in a house which he built a little before he died, till we should be fit to serve your majesty and ask of you some employ when opportunity offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our common exercise, and what none of your majesty's subjects who intend to bear arms in your armies, ought, according to the ancient custom of the kingdom, to neglect." The emperor, charmed with so prudent an answer, said: "Since it is so, I should be glad to see your expertness in the chase; choose your own game." The princes mounted their horses again and followed the emperor, but had not gone far before they saw many wild beasts together. Prince Bahman chose a lion and Prince Perviz a bear, and pursued
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places, that he would soon be up, they resolved to discontinue their chase, and retire to avoid encountering him; but in the very road they took they chanced to meet him in so narrow a way that they could not retreat without being seen. In their surprise they had only time to alight and prostrate themselves before the emperor, without lifting up their heads to look at him. The emperor, who saw they were as well mounted and dressed as if they had belonged to his court, had a curiosity to see their faces. He stopped and commanded them to rise. The princes rose up and stood before him with an easy and graceful air, accompanied with modest countenances. The emperor took some time to view them before he spoke, and after he had admired their good air and mien, asked them who they were and where they lived. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we are the sons of the late intendant of your majesty's gardens, and live in a house which he built a little before he died, till we should be fit to serve your majesty and ask of you some employ when opportunity offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our common exercise, and what none of your majesty's subjects who intend to bear arms in your armies, ought, according to the ancient custom of the kingdom, to neglect." The emperor, charmed with so prudent an answer, said: "Since it is so, I should be glad to see your expertness in the chase; choose your own game." The princes mounted their horses again and followed the emperor, but had not gone far before they saw many wild beasts together. Prince Bahman chose a lion and Prince Perviz a bear, and pursued them with so much intrepidity that the emperor was surprised. They came up with their game nearly at the same time, and darted their javelins with so much skill and address that they pierced the one the lion and the other the bear so effectually that the emperor saw them fall one after the other. Immediately afterward Prince Bahman pursued another bear, and Prince Perviz another lion, and killed them in a short time, and would have beaten out for fresh game, but the emperor would not let them, and sent to them to come to him. When they approached
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as harmonious a concert as those of the parent from which it was gathered. A large basin of beautiful marble was placed in the garden, and when it was finished, the princess poured into it all the Golden Water from the flagon, which instantly increased and swelled so much that it soon reached up to the edges of the basin, and afterward formed in the middle a fountain twenty feet high, which fell again into the basin perpetually, without running over. The report of these wonders was presently spread abroad, and as the gates of the house and those of the gardens were shut to nobody, a great number of people came to admire them. Some days after, when the Princes Bahman and Perviz had recovered from the fatigue of their journey, they resumed their former way of living; and as their usual diversion was hunting, they mounted their horses and went for the first time since their return, not to their own demesne, but two or three leagues from their house. As they pursued their sport, the emperor of Persia came in pursuit of game upon the same ground. When they perceived, by the number of horsemen in different places, that he would soon be up, they resolved to discontinue their chase, and retire to avoid encountering him; but in the very road they took they chanced to meet him in so narrow a way that they could not retreat without being seen. In their surprise they had only time to alight and prostrate themselves before the emperor, without lifting up their heads to look at him. The emperor, who saw they were as well mounted and dressed as if they had belonged to his court, had a curiosity to see their faces. He stopped and commanded them to rise. The princes rose up and stood before him with an easy and graceful air, accompanied with modest countenances. The emperor took some time to view them before he spoke, and after he had admired their good air and mien, asked them who they were and where they lived. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we are the sons of the late intendant of your majesty's gardens, and live in a house which he built a little before he died, till we should be fit to serve your majesty and ask of you some employ when opportunity offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our common exercise, and what none of your majesty's subjects who intend to bear arms in your armies, ought, according to the ancient custom of the kingdom, to neglect." The emperor, charmed with so prudent an answer, said: "Since it is so, I should be glad to see your expertness in the chase; choose your own game." The princes mounted their horses again and followed the emperor, but had not gone far before they saw many wild beasts together. Prince Bahman chose a lion and Prince Perviz a bear, and pursued them with so much intrepidity that the emperor was surprised. They came up with their game nearly at the same time, and darted their javelins with so much skill and address that they pierced the one the lion and the other the bear so effectually that the emperor saw them fall one after the other. Immediately afterward Prince Bahman pursued another bear, and Prince Perviz another lion, and killed them in a short time, and would have beaten out for fresh game, but the emperor would not let them, and sent to them to come to him. When they approached he said: "If I had given you leave, you would soon have destroyed all my game; but it is not that which I would preserve, but your persons; for I am so well assured your bravery may one time or other be serviceable to me, that from this moment your lives will be always dear to me." The emperor, in short, conceived so great a kindness for the two princes, that he invited them immediately to make him a visit, to which Prince Bahman replied: "Your majesty does us an honour we do not deserve, and we beg you will excuse us." The emperor, who could not comprehend what reason the princes could have to refuse this token of his favour, pressed them to tell him why they excused themselves. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we have a sister younger than ourselves, with whom we live in such perfect union, that we undertake nothing before we consult her, nor she anything without asking our advice." "I commend your brotherly affection," answered the emperor. "Consult your sister, meet me to-morrow, and give me an answer." The princes went home, but neglected to speak of their adventure in meeting the emperor and hunting
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had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure. When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess, who, finding that none of them would accept the honour, but that it was reserved for her, addressed herself to them and said: "Gentlemen, I expect that some of you should lead the way;" to which one who was nearest to her, in the name of the rest, replied: "Madam, were we ignorant of the respect due to your sex, yet after what you have done for us there is no deference we would not willingly pay you, notwithstanding your modesty; we entreat you no longer to deprive us of the happiness of following you." "Gentlemen," said the princess, "I do not deserve the honour you do me, and accept it only because you desire it." At the same time she led the way, and the two princes and the gentlemen followed. This illustrious company called upon the dervish as they passed, to thank him for his reception and wholesome advice, which they had all found to be sincere. He was dead, however; whether of old age, or because he was no longer necessary to show the way to obtaining the three rarities, did not appear. They pursued their route, but lessened in their numbers every day. The gentlemen who, as we said before, had come from different countries, after severally repeating their obligations to the princess and her brothers, took leave of them one after another as they approached the road by which they had come. As soon as the princess reached home, she placed the cage in the garden, and the Bird no sooner began to warble than he was surrounded by nightingales, chaffinches, larks, linnets, goldfinches, and every species of birds of the country. The branch of the Singing Tree was no sooner set in the midst of the parterre, a little distance from the house, than it took root and in a short time became a large tree, the leaves of which gave as harmonious a concert as those of the parent from which it was gathered. A large basin of beautiful marble was placed in the garden, and when it was finished, the princess poured into it all the Golden Water from the flagon, which instantly increased and swelled so much that it soon reached up to the edges of the basin, and afterward formed in the middle a fountain twenty feet high, which fell again into the basin perpetually, without running over. The report of these wonders was presently spread abroad, and as the gates of the house and those of the gardens were shut to nobody, a great number of people came to admire them. Some days after, when the Princes Bahman and Perviz had recovered from the fatigue of their journey, they resumed their former way of living; and as their usual diversion was hunting, they mounted their horses and went for the first time since their return, not to their own demesne, but two or three leagues from their house. As they pursued their sport, the emperor of Persia came in pursuit of game upon the same ground. When they perceived, by the number of horsemen in different places, that he would soon be up, they resolved to discontinue their chase, and retire to avoid encountering him; but in the very road they took they chanced to meet him in so narrow a way that they could not retreat without being seen. In their surprise they had only time to alight and prostrate themselves before the emperor, without lifting up their heads to look at him. The emperor, who saw they were as well mounted and dressed as if they had belonged to his court, had a curiosity to see their faces. He stopped and commanded them to rise. The princes rose up and stood before him with an easy and graceful air, accompanied with modest countenances. The emperor took some time to view them before he spoke, and after he had admired their good air and mien, asked them who they were and where they lived. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we are the sons of the late intendant of your majesty's gardens, and live in a house which he built a little before he died, till we should be fit to serve your majesty and ask of you some employ when opportunity offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our common exercise, and what none of your majesty's subjects who intend to bear arms in your armies, ought, according to the ancient custom of the kingdom, to neglect." The emperor, charmed with so prudent an answer, said: "Since it is so, I should be glad to see your expertness in the chase; choose your own game." The princes mounted their horses again and followed the emperor, but had not gone far before they saw many wild beasts together. Prince Bahman chose a lion and Prince Perviz a bear, and pursued them with so much intrepidity that the emperor was surprised. They came up with their game nearly at the same time, and darted their javelins with so much skill and address that they pierced the one the lion and the other the bear so effectually that the emperor saw them fall one after the other. Immediately afterward Prince Bahman pursued another bear, and Prince Perviz another lion, and killed them in a short time, and would have beaten out for fresh game, but the emperor would not let them, and sent to them to come to him. When they approached he said: "If I had given you leave, you would soon have destroyed all my game; but it is not that which I would preserve, but your persons; for I am so well assured your bravery may one time or other be serviceable to me, that from this moment your lives will be always dear to me." The emperor, in short, conceived so great a kindness for the two princes, that he invited them immediately to make him a visit, to which Prince Bahman replied: "Your majesty does us an honour we do not deserve, and we beg you will excuse us." The emperor, who could not comprehend what reason the princes could have to refuse this token of his favour, pressed them to tell him why they excused themselves. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we have a sister younger than ourselves, with whom we live in such perfect union, that we undertake nothing before we consult her, nor she anything without asking our advice." "I commend your brotherly affection," answered the emperor. "Consult your sister, meet me to-morrow, and give me an answer." The princes went home, but neglected to speak of their adventure in meeting the emperor and hunting with him, and also of the honour he had done them, yet did not the next morning fail to meet him at the place appointed. "Well," said the emperor, "have you spoken to your sister, and has she consented to the pleasure I expect of seeing you?" The two princes looked at each other and blushed. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we beg your majesty to excuse us, for both my brother and I forgot." "Then remember to-day," replied the emperor, "and be sure to bring me an answer to-morrow." The princes were guilty of the same fault a second time, and the emperor was so good-natured as to forgive their negligence; but to prevent their forgetfulness the third time, he pulled three little golden balls out of a purse, and put them into Prince Bahman's bosom. "These balls," said he, smiling, "will prevent your forgetting a third time what I wish you to do for my sake; since the noise they will make by falling on the floor when you undress will remind you, if you do not recollect it before." The event happened just as the emperor foresaw; and without these balls the princes had not thought of speaking to their sister of this affair, for as Prince Bahman unloosed his girdle to go to bed the balls dropped on the floor, upon which he ran into Prince Perviz's chamber, when both went into the Princess Periezade's apartment, and after they had asked her pardon for coming at so unseasonable a time, they told her all the circumstances of their meeting the emperor. The princess was somewhat surprised at this intelligence. "Your meeting with the emperor," said she, "is happy and honourable and may in the end be highly advantageous to you, but it places me in an awkward position. It was on my account, I know, you refused the emperor, and I am infinitely obliged to you for doing so. I know by this that you would rather be guilty of incivility toward the emperor than violate the union we have sworn to each other. You judge right, for if you had once gone you would insensibly have been engaged to devote yourselves to him. But do you think it an easy matter absolutely to refuse the emperor what he seems so earnestly to desire? Monarchs will be obeyed in their desires, and it may be dangerous to
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road by which they had come. As soon as the princess reached home, she placed the cage in the garden, and the Bird no sooner began to warble than he was surrounded by nightingales, chaffinches, larks, linnets, goldfinches, and every species of birds of the country. The branch of the Singing Tree was no sooner set in the midst of the parterre, a little distance from the house, than it took root and in a short time became a large tree, the leaves of which gave as harmonious a concert as those of the parent from which it was gathered. A large basin of beautiful marble was placed in the garden, and when it was finished, the princess poured into it all the Golden Water from the flagon, which instantly increased and swelled so much that it soon reached up to the edges of the basin, and afterward formed in the middle a fountain twenty feet high, which fell again into the basin perpetually, without running over. The report of these wonders was presently spread abroad, and as the gates of the house and those of the gardens were shut to nobody, a great number of people came to admire them. Some days after, when the Princes Bahman and Perviz had recovered from the fatigue of their journey, they resumed their former way of living; and as their usual diversion was hunting, they mounted their horses and went for the first time since their return, not to their own demesne, but two or three leagues from their house. As they pursued their sport, the emperor of Persia came in pursuit of game upon the same ground. When they perceived, by the number of horsemen in different places, that he would soon be up, they resolved to discontinue their chase, and retire to avoid encountering him; but in the very road they took they chanced to meet him in so narrow a way that they could not retreat without being seen. In their surprise they had only time to alight and prostrate themselves before the emperor, without lifting up their heads to look at him. The emperor, who saw they were as well mounted and dressed as if they had belonged to his court, had a curiosity to see their faces. He stopped and commanded them to rise. The princes rose up and stood before him with an easy and graceful air, accompanied with modest countenances. The emperor took some time to view them before he spoke, and after he had admired their good air and mien, asked them who they were and where they lived. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we are the sons of the late intendant of your majesty's gardens, and live in a house which he built a little before he died, till we should be fit to serve your majesty and ask of you some employ when opportunity offered." "By what I perceive,"<|quote|>replied the emperor,</|quote|>"you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our common exercise, and what none of your majesty's subjects who intend to bear arms in your armies, ought, according to the ancient custom of the kingdom, to neglect." The emperor, charmed with so prudent an answer, said: "Since it is so, I should be glad to see your expertness in the chase; choose your own game." The princes mounted their horses again and followed the emperor, but had not gone far before they saw many wild beasts together. Prince Bahman chose a lion and Prince Perviz a bear, and pursued them with so much intrepidity that the emperor was surprised. They came up with their game nearly at the same time, and darted their javelins with so much skill and address that they pierced the one the lion and the other the bear so effectually that the emperor saw them fall one after the other. Immediately afterward Prince Bahman pursued another bear, and Prince Perviz another lion, and killed them in a short time, and would have beaten out for fresh game, but the emperor would not let them, and sent to them to come to him. When they approached he said: "If I had given you leave, you would soon have destroyed all my game; but it is not that which I would preserve, but your persons; for I am so well assured your bravery may one time or other be serviceable to me, that from this moment your lives will be always dear to me." The emperor, in short, conceived so great a kindness for the two princes, that he invited them immediately to make him a visit, to which Prince Bahman replied: "Your majesty does us an honour we do not deserve, and we beg you will excuse us." The emperor, who could not comprehend what reason the princes could have to refuse this token of his favour, pressed them to tell him why they excused themselves. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we have a sister younger than ourselves, with whom we live in such perfect union, that we undertake nothing before we consult her, nor she anything without asking our advice." "I commend your brotherly affection," answered the emperor. "Consult your sister, meet me to-morrow, and give me an answer." The princes went home, but neglected to speak of their adventure in meeting the emperor and hunting with him, and also of the honour he had done them, yet did not the next morning fail to meet him at the place appointed. "Well," said the emperor, "have you spoken to your sister, and has she consented to the pleasure I expect of seeing you?" The two princes looked at each other and blushed. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we beg your majesty to excuse us, for both my brother and I forgot." "Then remember to-day," replied the emperor, "and be sure to bring me an answer to-morrow." The princes were guilty of the same fault a second time, and the emperor was so good-natured as to forgive their negligence; but to prevent their forgetfulness the third time, he pulled three little golden balls out of a purse, and put them into Prince Bahman's bosom. "These balls," said he, smiling, "will prevent your forgetting a third
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Arabian Nights (1)
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"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"
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Emma
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can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all
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as soon as ever he can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very
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he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride
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thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to
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know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?" "Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight."
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in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?" "Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable." "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!" "Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say,
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penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther. Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "_two_ parlours, two very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people." For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?" "Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable." "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!" "Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet." "To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year." "I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you." "Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can do." "You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education." "To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had had some education--and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries
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as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?" "Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can." The next question was--<|quote|>"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"</|quote|>"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable." "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!" "Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet." "To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks
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Emma
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It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
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No speaker
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to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether
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the very person for you to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton.
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A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer." "Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider
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I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer." "Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is _mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully.
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any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now." "Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer." "Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is _mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I
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comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol," 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.' "Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--" (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), "Your father's state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good." "My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now." "Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer." "Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is _mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_ _world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments." 'But,' "said I," 'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a musical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.'" "We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will
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in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style." Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties." "Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England." "Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry." "No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surry called so." Emma was silenced. "My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?" "No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure." "Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol," 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.' "Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--" (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), "Your father's state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good." "My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now." "Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer." "Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is _mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_ _world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments." 'But,' "said I," 'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a musical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.'" "We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned, in consideration of the motive." "No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. Will not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music." "But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger, surely?" "I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music--never touches the instrument--though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper." "But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular a train--" "Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see." Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject. "We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good--there is something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly. She was your governess, I think?" Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on. "Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find
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Woodhouse, every summer?" "No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure." "Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol," 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.' "Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--" (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), "Your father's state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good." "My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now." "Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with."<|quote|>It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.</|quote|>"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer." "Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is _mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_ _world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give
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Emma
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"Dear Tom,"
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Louisa Bounderby
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not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing
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gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is
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of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes. "Are you there, Loo?" said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is since you have been to see me!" "Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes
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not well?" "Quite well, father." "And cheerful?" She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. "I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been." "That's well," said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes. "Are you there, Loo?" said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is since you have been to see me!" "Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?" "No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do so in the morning." "Ah! That's what I mean," said Tom. "Do you know where he
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as he was not to be home until late and she would not see him again until the morning he held her in his arms, looking at her in his kindest manner, and said: "My dear Louisa, you are a woman!" She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. "Yes, father." "My dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?" "Yes, father." "Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?" "Quite well, father." "And cheerful?" She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. "I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been." "That's well," said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes. "Are you there, Loo?" said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is since you have been to see me!" "Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?" "No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do so in the morning." "Ah! That's what I mean," said Tom. "Do you know where he is to-night?" with a very deep expression. "No." "Then I'll tell you. He's with old Bounderby. They are having a regular confab together up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I'll tell you again. To keep Mrs. Sparsit's ears as far off as possible, I expect." With her hand upon her brother's shoulder, Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at her face with greater interest than usual, and, encircling her waist with his arm, drew her coaxingly to him. "You are very fond of me, an't you, Loo?" "Indeed I am,
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from his necessary progress through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one of the representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lame honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years after our Master? All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate, and became extinct, that from the period when her father had said she was almost a young woman which seemed but yesterday she had scarcely attracted his notice again, when he found her quite a young woman. "Quite a young woman," said Mr. Gradgrind, musing. "Dear me!" Soon after this discovery, he became more thoughtful than usual for several days, and seemed much engrossed by one subject. On a certain night, when he was going out, and Louisa came to bid him good-bye before his departure as he was not to be home until late and she would not see him again until the morning he held her in his arms, looking at her in his kindest manner, and said: "My dear Louisa, you are a woman!" She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. "Yes, father." "My dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?" "Yes, father." "Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?" "Quite well, father." "And cheerful?" She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. "I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been." "That's well," said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes. "Are you there, Loo?" said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is since you have been to see me!" "Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?" "No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do so in the morning." "Ah! That's what I mean," said Tom. "Do you know where he is to-night?" with a very deep expression. "No." "Then I'll tell you. He's with old Bounderby. They are having a regular confab together up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I'll tell you again. To keep Mrs. Sparsit's ears as far off as possible, I expect." With her hand upon her brother's shoulder, Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at her face with greater interest than usual, and, encircling her waist with his arm, drew her coaxingly to him. "You are very fond of me, an't you, Loo?" "Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let such long intervals go by without coming to see me." "Well, sister of mine," said Tom, "when you say that, you are near my thoughts. We might be so much oftener together mightn't we? Always together, almost mightn't we? It would do me a great deal of good if you were to make up your mind to I know what, Loo. It would be a splendid thing for me. It would be uncommonly jolly!" Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning scrutiny. He could make nothing of her face. He pressed her in his arm, and kissed her cheek. She returned the kiss, but still looked at the fire. "I say, Loo! I thought I'd come, and just hint to you what was going on: though I supposed you'd most likely guess, even if you didn't know. I can't stay, because I'm engaged to some fellows to-night. You won't forget how fond you are of me?" "No, dear Tom, I won't forget." "That's a capital girl," said Tom. "Good-bye, Loo." She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance lurid. She
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you pursued, you pursued according to the system the system and there is no more to be said about it. I can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the development of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed." "I wish I could have made a better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of your protection of her." "Don't shed tears," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't shed tears. I don't complain of you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman and and we must make that do." "Thank you, sir, very much," said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey. "You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. I therefore hope," said Mr. Gradgrind, "that you can make yourself happy in those relations." "I should have nothing to wish, sir, if" "I understand you," said Mr. Gradgrind; "you still refer to your father. I have heard from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your training in the science of arriving at exact results had been more successful, you would have been wiser on these points. I will say no more." He really liked Sissy too well to have a contempt for her; otherwise he held her calculating powers in such very slight estimation that he must have fallen upon that conclusion. Somehow or other, he had become possessed by an idea that there was something in this girl which could hardly be set forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definition might be easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing; yet he was not sure that if he had been required, for example, to tick her off into columns in a parliamentary return, he would have quite known how to divide her. In some stages of his manufacture of the human fabric, the processes of Time are very rapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both at such a stage of their working up, these changes were effected in a year or two; while Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary in his course, and underwent no alteration. Except one, which was apart from his necessary progress through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one of the representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lame honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years after our Master? All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate, and became extinct, that from the period when her father had said she was almost a young woman which seemed but yesterday she had scarcely attracted his notice again, when he found her quite a young woman. "Quite a young woman," said Mr. Gradgrind, musing. "Dear me!" Soon after this discovery, he became more thoughtful than usual for several days, and seemed much engrossed by one subject. On a certain night, when he was going out, and Louisa came to bid him good-bye before his departure as he was not to be home until late and she would not see him again until the morning he held her in his arms, looking at her in his kindest manner, and said: "My dear Louisa, you are a woman!" She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. "Yes, father." "My dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?" "Yes, father." "Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?" "Quite well, father." "And cheerful?" She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. "I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been." "That's well," said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes. "Are you there, Loo?" said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is since you have been to see me!" "Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?" "No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do so in the morning." "Ah! That's what I mean," said Tom. "Do you know where he is to-night?" with a very deep expression. "No." "Then I'll tell you. He's with old Bounderby. They are having a regular confab together up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I'll tell you again. To keep Mrs. Sparsit's ears as far off as possible, I expect." With her hand upon her brother's shoulder, Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at her face with greater interest than usual, and, encircling her waist with his arm, drew her coaxingly to him. "You are very fond of me, an't you, Loo?" "Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let such long intervals go by without coming to see me." "Well, sister of mine," said Tom, "when you say that, you are near my thoughts. We might be so much oftener together mightn't we? Always together, almost mightn't we? It would do me a great deal of good if you were to make up your mind to I know what, Loo. It would be a splendid thing for me. It would be uncommonly jolly!" Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning scrutiny. He could make nothing of her face. He pressed her in his arm, and kissed her cheek. She returned the kiss, but still looked at the fire. "I say, Loo! I thought I'd come, and just hint to you what was going on: though I supposed you'd most likely guess, even if you didn't know. I can't stay, because I'm engaged to some fellows to-night. You won't forget how fond you are of me?" "No, dear Tom, I won't forget." "That's a capital girl," said Tom. "Good-bye, Loo." She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking steadfastly towards them, and listening to his departing steps. They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old Time, that greatest and longest-established Spinner of all, would weave from the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes. CHAPTER XV FATHER AND DAUGHTER ALTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Blue Beard, his room was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue books. Whatever they could prove (which is usually anything you like), they proved there, in an army constantly strengthening by the arrival of new recruits. In that charmed apartment, the most complicated social questions were cast up, got into exact totals, and finally settled if those concerned could only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in _his_ Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge. To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father's table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance gloomily. "My dear Louisa," said her father, "I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of
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through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one of the representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lame honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years after our Master? All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate, and became extinct, that from the period when her father had said she was almost a young woman which seemed but yesterday she had scarcely attracted his notice again, when he found her quite a young woman. "Quite a young woman," said Mr. Gradgrind, musing. "Dear me!" Soon after this discovery, he became more thoughtful than usual for several days, and seemed much engrossed by one subject. On a certain night, when he was going out, and Louisa came to bid him good-bye before his departure as he was not to be home until late and she would not see him again until the morning he held her in his arms, looking at her in his kindest manner, and said: "My dear Louisa, you are a woman!" She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. "Yes, father." "My dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?" "Yes, father." "Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?" "Quite well, father." "And cheerful?" She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar manner. "I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually have been." "That's well," said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ashes. "Are you there, Loo?" said her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a prepossessing one.<|quote|>"Dear Tom,"</|quote|>she answered, rising and embracing him, "how long it is since you have been to see me!" "Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything particular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?" "No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do so in the morning." "Ah! That's what I mean," said Tom. "Do you know where he is to-night?" with a very deep expression. "No." "Then I'll tell you. He's with old Bounderby. They are having a regular confab together up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I'll tell you again. To keep Mrs. Sparsit's ears as far off as possible, I expect." With her hand upon her brother's shoulder, Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at her face with greater interest than usual, and, encircling her waist with his arm, drew her coaxingly to him. "You are very fond of me, an't you, Loo?" "Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let such long intervals go by without coming to see me." "Well, sister of mine," said Tom, "when you say that, you are
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Hard Times
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"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"
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Mrs. Herriton
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him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result
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might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss
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you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?" In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own--tactics which might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?" "It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia s baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or
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in that place--and with that father?" Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used against himself. "Let us admit frankly," she continued, "that after all we may have responsibilities." "I don t understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?" In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own--tactics which might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?" "It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia s baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel--who will certainly bring it up to be vicious--I shall do it." "You talk like Harriet." "And why not?" said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. "Say, if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen the thing more clearly than any of
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she ll say it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! We knew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the train; and here it is again. The young person is mad." She still said nothing. "Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I d really enjoy it." In a low, serious voice--such a voice as she had not used to him for months--Mrs. Herriton said, "Caroline has been extremely impertinent. Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the child to grow up in that place--and with that father?" Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used against himself. "Let us admit frankly," she continued, "that after all we may have responsibilities." "I don t understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?" In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own--tactics which might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?" "It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia s baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel--who will certainly bring it up to be vicious--I shall do it." "You talk like Harriet." "And why not?" said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. "Say, if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen the thing more clearly than any of us. She longs for her little brother. She shall have him. I don t care if I am impulsive." He was sure that she was not impulsive, but did not dare to say so. Her ability frightened him. All his life he had been her puppet. She let him worship Italy, and reform Sawston--just as she had let Harriet be Low Church. She had let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted a thing she always got it. And though she was frightening him, she did not inspire him with reverence. Her life, he saw, was
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Her extreme gravity made Mrs. Herriton uneasy. "Of course," she added, "if Mrs. Theobald decides on any plan that seems at all practicable--I must say I don t see any such--I shall ask if I may join her in it, for Irma s sake, and share in any possible expenses." "Please would you let me know if she decides on anything. I should like to join as well." "My dear, how you throw about your money! We would never allow it." "And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know in any case." Mrs. Herriton made a point of kissing her. "Is the young person mad?" burst out Philip as soon as she had departed. "Never in my life have I seen such colossal impertinence. She ought to be well smacked, and sent back to Sunday-school." His mother said nothing. "But don t you see--she is practically threatening us? You can t put her off with Mrs. Theobald; she knows as well as we do that she is a nonentity. If we don t do anything she s going to raise a scandal--that we neglect our relatives, &c., which is, of course, a lie. Still she ll say it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! We knew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the train; and here it is again. The young person is mad." She still said nothing. "Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I d really enjoy it." In a low, serious voice--such a voice as she had not used to him for months--Mrs. Herriton said, "Caroline has been extremely impertinent. Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the child to grow up in that place--and with that father?" Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used against himself. "Let us admit frankly," she continued, "that after all we may have responsibilities." "I don t understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?" In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own--tactics which might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?" "It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia s baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel--who will certainly bring it up to be vicious--I shall do it." "You talk like Harriet." "And why not?" said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. "Say, if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen the thing more clearly than any of us. She longs for her little brother. She shall have him. I don t care if I am impulsive." He was sure that she was not impulsive, but did not dare to say so. Her ability frightened him. All his life he had been her puppet. She let him worship Italy, and reform Sawston--just as she had let Harriet be Low Church. She had let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted a thing she always got it. And though she was frightening him, she did not inspire him with reverence. Her life, he saw, was without meaning. To what purpose was her diplomacy, her insincerity, her continued repression of vigour? Did they make any one better or happier? Did they even bring happiness to herself? Harriet with her gloomy peevish creed, Lilia with her clutches after pleasure, were after all more divine than this well-ordered, active, useless machine. Now that his mother had wounded his vanity he could criticize her thus. But he could not rebel. To the end of his days he could probably go on doing what she wanted. He watched with a cold interest the duel between her and Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton s policy only appeared gradually. It was to prevent Miss Abbott interfering with the child at all costs, and if possible to prevent her at a small cost. Pride was the only solid element in her disposition. She could not bear to seem less charitable than others. "I am planning what can be done," she would tell people, "and that kind Caroline Abbott is helping me. It is no business of either of us, but we are getting to feel that the baby must not be left entirely to that horrible man. It would be unfair to little Irma;
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ashamed, and talked about the baby less. The end of the school year was at hand, and she hoped to get another prize. But she also had put her hand to the wheel. It was several days before they saw Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton had not come across her much since the kiss of reconciliation, nor Philip since the journey to London. She had, indeed, been rather a disappointment to him. Her creditable display of originality had never been repeated: he feared she was slipping back. Now she came about the Cottage Hospital--her life was devoted to dull acts of charity--and though she got money out of him and out of his mother, she still sat tight in her chair, looking graver and more wooden than ever. "I dare say you have heard," said Mrs. Herriton, well knowing what the matter was. "Yes, I have. I came to ask you; have any steps been taken?" Philip was astonished. The question was impertinent in the extreme. He had a regard for Miss Abbott, and regretted that she had been guilty of it. "About the baby?" asked Mrs. Herriton pleasantly. "Yes." "As far as I know, no steps. Mrs. Theobald may have decided on something, but I have not heard of it." "I was meaning, had you decided on anything?" "The child is no relation of ours," said Philip. "It is therefore scarcely for us to interfere." His mother glanced at him nervously. "Poor Lilia was almost a daughter to me once. I know what Miss Abbott means. But now things have altered. Any initiative would naturally come from Mrs. Theobald." "But does not Mrs. Theobald always take any initiative from you?" asked Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton could not help colouring. "I sometimes have given her advice in the past. I should not presume to do so now." "Then is nothing to be done for the child at all?" "It is extraordinarily good of you to take this unexpected interest," said Philip. "The child came into the world through my negligence," replied Miss Abbott. "It is natural I should take an interest in it." "My dear Caroline," said Mrs. Herriton, "you must not brood over the thing. Let bygones be bygones. The child should worry you even less than it worries us. We never even mention it. It belongs to another world." Miss Abbott got up without replying and turned to go. Her extreme gravity made Mrs. Herriton uneasy. "Of course," she added, "if Mrs. Theobald decides on any plan that seems at all practicable--I must say I don t see any such--I shall ask if I may join her in it, for Irma s sake, and share in any possible expenses." "Please would you let me know if she decides on anything. I should like to join as well." "My dear, how you throw about your money! We would never allow it." "And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know in any case." Mrs. Herriton made a point of kissing her. "Is the young person mad?" burst out Philip as soon as she had departed. "Never in my life have I seen such colossal impertinence. She ought to be well smacked, and sent back to Sunday-school." His mother said nothing. "But don t you see--she is practically threatening us? You can t put her off with Mrs. Theobald; she knows as well as we do that she is a nonentity. If we don t do anything she s going to raise a scandal--that we neglect our relatives, &c., which is, of course, a lie. Still she ll say it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! We knew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the train; and here it is again. The young person is mad." She still said nothing. "Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I d really enjoy it." In a low, serious voice--such a voice as she had not used to him for months--Mrs. Herriton said, "Caroline has been extremely impertinent. Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the child to grow up in that place--and with that father?" Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used against himself. "Let us admit frankly," she continued, "that after all we may have responsibilities." "I don t understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?" In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own--tactics which might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?" "It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia s baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel--who will certainly bring it up to be vicious--I shall do it." "You talk like Harriet." "And why not?" said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. "Say, if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen the thing more clearly than any of us. She longs for her little brother. She shall have him. I don t care if I am impulsive." He was sure that she was not impulsive, but did not dare to say so. Her ability frightened him. All his life he had been her puppet. She let him worship Italy, and reform Sawston--just as she had let Harriet be Low Church. She had let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted a thing she always got it. And though she was frightening him, she did not inspire him with reverence. Her life, he saw, was without meaning. To what purpose was her diplomacy, her insincerity, her continued repression of vigour? Did they make any one better or happier? Did they even bring happiness to herself? Harriet with her gloomy peevish creed, Lilia with her clutches after pleasure, were after all more divine than this well-ordered, active, useless machine. Now that his mother had wounded his vanity he could criticize her thus. But he could not rebel. To the end of his days he could probably go on doing what she wanted. He watched with a cold interest the duel between her and Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton s policy only appeared gradually. It was to prevent Miss Abbott interfering with the child at all costs, and if possible to prevent her at a small cost. Pride was the only solid element in her disposition. She could not bear to seem less charitable than others. "I am planning what can be done," she would tell people, "and that kind Caroline Abbott is helping me. It is no business of either of us, but we are getting to feel that the baby must not be left entirely to that horrible man. It would be unfair to little Irma; after all, he is her half-brother. No, we have come to nothing definite." Miss Abbott was equally civil, but not to be appeased by good intentions. The child s welfare was a sacred duty to her, not a matter of pride or even of sentiment. By it alone, she felt, could she undo a little of the evil that she had permitted to come into the world. To her imagination Monteriano had become a magic city of vice, beneath whose towers no person could grow up happy or pure. Sawston, with its semi-detached houses and snobby schools, its book teas and bazaars, was certainly petty and dull; at times she found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, and at Sawston, either with the Herritons or with herself, the baby should grow up. As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Waters and Adamson to send to Gino--the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy of it afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picture postcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offered to adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to come near it, and would surrender some of Lilia s money for its education. "What do you think of it?" she asked her son. "It would not do to let him know that we are anxious for it." "Certainly he will never suppose that." "But what effect will the letter have on him?" "When he gets it he will do a sum. If it is less expensive in the long run to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he will part with it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father." "Dear, you re shockingly cynical." After a pause she added, "How would the sum work out?" "I don t know, I m sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby being posted by return, you should have sent a little sum to HIM. Oh, I m not cynical--at least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary of the whole show. Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston s a kind, pitiful place, isn t it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort." He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not
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go. Her extreme gravity made Mrs. Herriton uneasy. "Of course," she added, "if Mrs. Theobald decides on any plan that seems at all practicable--I must say I don t see any such--I shall ask if I may join her in it, for Irma s sake, and share in any possible expenses." "Please would you let me know if she decides on anything. I should like to join as well." "My dear, how you throw about your money! We would never allow it." "And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know in any case." Mrs. Herriton made a point of kissing her. "Is the young person mad?" burst out Philip as soon as she had departed. "Never in my life have I seen such colossal impertinence. She ought to be well smacked, and sent back to Sunday-school." His mother said nothing. "But don t you see--she is practically threatening us? You can t put her off with Mrs. Theobald; she knows as well as we do that she is a nonentity. If we don t do anything she s going to raise a scandal--that we neglect our relatives, &c., which is, of course, a lie. Still she ll say it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! We knew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the train; and here it is again. The young person is mad." She still said nothing. "Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I d really enjoy it." In a low, serious voice--such a voice as she had not used to him for months--Mrs. Herriton said, "Caroline has been extremely impertinent. Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the child to grow up in that place--and with that father?" Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used against himself. "Let us admit frankly," she continued, "that after all we may have responsibilities." "I don t understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?" In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own--tactics which might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her.<|quote|>"Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"</|quote|>"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?" "It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia s baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel--who will certainly bring it up to be vicious--I shall do it." "You talk like Harriet." "And why not?" said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. "Say, if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen the thing more clearly than any of us. She longs for her little brother. She shall have him. I don t care if I am impulsive." He was sure that she was not impulsive, but did not dare to say so. Her ability frightened him. All his life he had been her puppet. She let him worship Italy, and reform Sawston--just as she had let Harriet be Low Church. She had let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted a thing she always got it. And though she was frightening him, she did not inspire him with reverence. Her life, he saw, was without meaning. To what purpose was her diplomacy, her insincerity, her continued repression of vigour? Did they make any one better or happier? Did they even bring happiness to herself? Harriet with her gloomy peevish creed, Lilia with her clutches after pleasure, were after all more divine than this well-ordered, active, useless machine. Now that his mother had wounded his vanity he could criticize her thus. But he could not rebel. To the end of his days he could probably go on doing what she wanted. He watched with a cold
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"
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Mr. Thomas
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him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was
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to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also
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true, nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes,--not even the grease-paint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas. "Come on," he said, rising. "Oh, she did n't ask for me," cried Joe, tremulous and eager. His companion went away laughing. "Who 's your young friend?" asked Hattie. "A
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had not run to silk waists in magenta. Joe, however, saw no fault in her. She was altogether lovely to him, and his delight was the more poignant as he recognised in her one of the girls he had seen on the stage a couple of weeks ago. That being true, nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes,--not even the grease-paint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas. "Come on," he said, rising. "Oh, she did n't ask for me," cried Joe, tremulous and eager. His companion went away laughing. "Who 's your young friend?" asked Hattie. "A fellah from the South." "Bring him over here." Joe could hardly believe in his own good luck, and his head, which was getting a bit weak, was near collapsing when his divinity asked him what he 'd have? He began to protest, until she told the waiter with an air
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heard no more of the concert. Even when the master of ceremonies announced with an air that, by special request, he himself would sing "Answer,"--the request was his own,--he did not draw the attention of the boy away from the yellow-skinned divinity who sat at a near table, drinking whiskey straight. She was a small girl, with fluffy dark hair and good features. A tiny foot peeped out from beneath her rattling silk skirts. She was a good-looking young woman and daintily made, though her face was no longer youthful, and one might have wished that with her complexion she had not run to silk waists in magenta. Joe, however, saw no fault in her. She was altogether lovely to him, and his delight was the more poignant as he recognised in her one of the girls he had seen on the stage a couple of weeks ago. That being true, nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes,--not even the grease-paint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas. "Come on," he said, rising. "Oh, she did n't ask for me," cried Joe, tremulous and eager. His companion went away laughing. "Who 's your young friend?" asked Hattie. "A fellah from the South." "Bring him over here." Joe could hardly believe in his own good luck, and his head, which was getting a bit weak, was near collapsing when his divinity asked him what he 'd have? He began to protest, until she told the waiter with an air of authority to make it a little "'skey." Then she asked him for a cigarette, and began talking to him in a pleasant, soothing way between puffs. When the drinks came, she said to Thomas, "Now, old man, you 've been awfully nice, but when you get your little drink, you run away like a good little boy. You 're superfluous." Thomas answered, "Well, I like that," but obediently gulped his whiskey and withdrew, while Joe laughed until the master of ceremonies stood up and looked sternly at him. The concert had long been over and the room was less
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drop in from the plays, the master of ceremonies opened proceedings by saying that "The free concert would now begin, and he hoped that all present, ladies included, would act like gentlemen, and not forget the waiter. Mr. Meriweather will now favour us with the latest coon song, entitled 'Come back to yo' Baby, Honey.'" There was a patter of applause, and a young negro came forward, and in a strident, music-hall voice, sung or rather recited with many gestures the ditty. He could n't have been much older than Joe, but already his face was hard with dissipation and foul knowledge. He gave the song with all the rank suggestiveness that could be put into it. Joe looked upon him as a hero. He was followed by a little, brown-skinned fellow with an immature Vandyke beard and a lisp. He sung his own composition and was funny; how much funnier than he himself knew or intended, may not even be hinted at. Then, while an instrumentalist, who seemed to have a grudge against the piano, was hammering out the opening bars of a march, Joe's attention was attracted by a woman entering the room, and from that moment he heard no more of the concert. Even when the master of ceremonies announced with an air that, by special request, he himself would sing "Answer,"--the request was his own,--he did not draw the attention of the boy away from the yellow-skinned divinity who sat at a near table, drinking whiskey straight. She was a small girl, with fluffy dark hair and good features. A tiny foot peeped out from beneath her rattling silk skirts. She was a good-looking young woman and daintily made, though her face was no longer youthful, and one might have wished that with her complexion she had not run to silk waists in magenta. Joe, however, saw no fault in her. She was altogether lovely to him, and his delight was the more poignant as he recognised in her one of the girls he had seen on the stage a couple of weeks ago. That being true, nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes,--not even the grease-paint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas. "Come on," he said, rising. "Oh, she did n't ask for me," cried Joe, tremulous and eager. His companion went away laughing. "Who 's your young friend?" asked Hattie. "A fellah from the South." "Bring him over here." Joe could hardly believe in his own good luck, and his head, which was getting a bit weak, was near collapsing when his divinity asked him what he 'd have? He began to protest, until she told the waiter with an air of authority to make it a little "'skey." Then she asked him for a cigarette, and began talking to him in a pleasant, soothing way between puffs. When the drinks came, she said to Thomas, "Now, old man, you 've been awfully nice, but when you get your little drink, you run away like a good little boy. You 're superfluous." Thomas answered, "Well, I like that," but obediently gulped his whiskey and withdrew, while Joe laughed until the master of ceremonies stood up and looked sternly at him. The concert had long been over and the room was less crowded when Thomas sauntered back to the pair. "Well, good-night," he said. "Guess you can find your way home, Mr. Hamilton;" and he gave Joe a long wink. "Goo'-night," said Joe, woozily, "I be a' ri'. Goo'-night." "Make it another 'skey," was Hattie's farewell remark. * * * * * It was late the next morning when Joe got home. He had a headache and a sense of triumph that not even his illness and his mother's reproof could subdue. He had promised Hattie to come often to the club. X A VISITOR FROM HOME Mrs. Hamilton began to question very seriously whether she had done the best thing in coming to New York as she saw her son staying away more and more and growing always farther away from her and his sister. Had she known how and where he spent his evenings, she would have had even greater cause to question the wisdom of their trip. She knew that although he worked he never had any money for the house, and she foresaw the time when the little they had would no longer suffice for Kitty and her. Realising this, she herself set out to find something to
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could get at any of the greater clubs in New York.' "I 've often been invited to join some of the swell clubs here, but I never do it. By Jove! I 'd rather come down here and fellowship right in with you fellows. I like coloured people, anyway. It 's natural. You see, my father had a big plantation and owned lots of slaves,--no offence, of course, but it was the custom of that time,--and I 've played with little darkies ever since I could remember." It was the same old story that the white who associates with negroes from volition usually tells to explain his taste. The truth about the young reporter was that he was born and reared on a Vermont farm, where his early life was passed in fighting for his very subsistence. But this never troubled Skaggsy. He was a monumental liar, and the saving quality about him was that he calmly believed his own lies while he was telling them, so no one was hurt, for the deceiver was as much a victim as the deceived. The boys who knew him best used to say that when Skaggs got started on one of his debauches of lying, the Recording Angel always put on an extra clerical force. "Now look at Maudie," he went on; "would you believe it that she was of a fine, rich family, and that the coloured girl she 's dancing with now used to be her servant? She 's just like me about that. Absolutely no prejudice." Joe was wide-eyed with wonder and admiration, and he could n't understand the amused expression on Thomas's face, nor why he surreptitiously kicked him under the table. Finally the reporter went his way, and Joe's sponsor explained to him that he was not to take in what Skaggsy said, and that there had n't been a word of truth in it. He ended with, "Everybody knows Maudie, and that coloured girl is Mamie Lacey, and never worked for anybody in her life. Skaggsy 's a good fellah, all right, but he 's the biggest liar in N' Yawk." The boy was distinctly shocked. He was n't sure but Thomas was jealous of the attention the white man had shown him and wished to belittle it. Anyway, he did not thank him for destroying his romance. About eleven o'clock, when the people began to drop in from the plays, the master of ceremonies opened proceedings by saying that "The free concert would now begin, and he hoped that all present, ladies included, would act like gentlemen, and not forget the waiter. Mr. Meriweather will now favour us with the latest coon song, entitled 'Come back to yo' Baby, Honey.'" There was a patter of applause, and a young negro came forward, and in a strident, music-hall voice, sung or rather recited with many gestures the ditty. He could n't have been much older than Joe, but already his face was hard with dissipation and foul knowledge. He gave the song with all the rank suggestiveness that could be put into it. Joe looked upon him as a hero. He was followed by a little, brown-skinned fellow with an immature Vandyke beard and a lisp. He sung his own composition and was funny; how much funnier than he himself knew or intended, may not even be hinted at. Then, while an instrumentalist, who seemed to have a grudge against the piano, was hammering out the opening bars of a march, Joe's attention was attracted by a woman entering the room, and from that moment he heard no more of the concert. Even when the master of ceremonies announced with an air that, by special request, he himself would sing "Answer,"--the request was his own,--he did not draw the attention of the boy away from the yellow-skinned divinity who sat at a near table, drinking whiskey straight. She was a small girl, with fluffy dark hair and good features. A tiny foot peeped out from beneath her rattling silk skirts. She was a good-looking young woman and daintily made, though her face was no longer youthful, and one might have wished that with her complexion she had not run to silk waists in magenta. Joe, however, saw no fault in her. She was altogether lovely to him, and his delight was the more poignant as he recognised in her one of the girls he had seen on the stage a couple of weeks ago. That being true, nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes,--not even the grease-paint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas. "Come on," he said, rising. "Oh, she did n't ask for me," cried Joe, tremulous and eager. His companion went away laughing. "Who 's your young friend?" asked Hattie. "A fellah from the South." "Bring him over here." Joe could hardly believe in his own good luck, and his head, which was getting a bit weak, was near collapsing when his divinity asked him what he 'd have? He began to protest, until she told the waiter with an air of authority to make it a little "'skey." Then she asked him for a cigarette, and began talking to him in a pleasant, soothing way between puffs. When the drinks came, she said to Thomas, "Now, old man, you 've been awfully nice, but when you get your little drink, you run away like a good little boy. You 're superfluous." Thomas answered, "Well, I like that," but obediently gulped his whiskey and withdrew, while Joe laughed until the master of ceremonies stood up and looked sternly at him. The concert had long been over and the room was less crowded when Thomas sauntered back to the pair. "Well, good-night," he said. "Guess you can find your way home, Mr. Hamilton;" and he gave Joe a long wink. "Goo'-night," said Joe, woozily, "I be a' ri'. Goo'-night." "Make it another 'skey," was Hattie's farewell remark. * * * * * It was late the next morning when Joe got home. He had a headache and a sense of triumph that not even his illness and his mother's reproof could subdue. He had promised Hattie to come often to the club. X A VISITOR FROM HOME Mrs. Hamilton began to question very seriously whether she had done the best thing in coming to New York as she saw her son staying away more and more and growing always farther away from her and his sister. Had she known how and where he spent his evenings, she would have had even greater cause to question the wisdom of their trip. She knew that although he worked he never had any money for the house, and she foresaw the time when the little they had would no longer suffice for Kitty and her. Realising this, she herself set out to find something to do. It was a hard matter, for wherever she went seeking employment, it was always for her and her daughter, for the more she saw of Mrs. Jones, the less she thought it well to leave the girl under her influence. Mrs. Hamilton was not a keen woman, but she had a mother's intuitions, and she saw a subtle change in her daughter. At first the girl grew wistful and then impatient and rebellious. She complained that Joe was away from them so much enjoying himself, while she had to be housed up like a prisoner. She had receded from her dignified position, and twice of an evening had gone out for a car-ride with Thomas; but as that gentleman never included the mother in his invitation, she decided that her daughter should go no more, and she begged Joe to take his sister out sometimes instead. He demurred at first, for he now numbered among his city acquirements a fine contempt for his woman relatives. Finally, however, he consented, and took Kit once to the theatre and once for a ride. Each time he left her in the care of Thomas as soon as they were out of the house, while he went to find or to wait for his dear Hattie. But his mother did not know all this, and Kit did not tell her. The quick poison of the unreal life about her had already begun to affect her character. She had grown secretive and sly. The innocent longing which in a burst of enthusiasm she had expressed that first night at the theatre was growing into a real ambition with her, and she dropped the simple old songs she knew to practise the detestable coon ditties which the stage demanded. She showed no particular pleasure when her mother found the sort of place they wanted, but went to work with her in sullen silence. Mrs. Hamilton could not understand it all, and many a night she wept and prayed over the change in this child of her heart. There were times when she felt that there was nothing left to work or fight for. The letters from Berry in prison became fewer and fewer. He was sinking into the dull, dead routine of his life. Her own letters to him fell off. It was hard getting the children to write. They did not want to be
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opening bars of a march, Joe's attention was attracted by a woman entering the room, and from that moment he heard no more of the concert. Even when the master of ceremonies announced with an air that, by special request, he himself would sing "Answer,"--the request was his own,--he did not draw the attention of the boy away from the yellow-skinned divinity who sat at a near table, drinking whiskey straight. She was a small girl, with fluffy dark hair and good features. A tiny foot peeped out from beneath her rattling silk skirts. She was a good-looking young woman and daintily made, though her face was no longer youthful, and one might have wished that with her complexion she had not run to silk waists in magenta. Joe, however, saw no fault in her. She was altogether lovely to him, and his delight was the more poignant as he recognised in her one of the girls he had seen on the stage a couple of weeks ago. That being true, nothing could keep her from being glorious in his eyes,--not even the grease-paint which adhered in unneat patches to her face, nor her taste for whiskey in its unreformed state. He gazed at her in ecstasy until Thomas, turning to see what had attracted him, said with a laugh,<|quote|>"Oh, it 's Hattie Sterling. Want to meet her?"</|quote|>Again the young fellow was dumb. Just then Hattie also noticed his intent look, and nodded and beckoned to Thomas. "Come on," he said, rising. "Oh, she did n't ask for me," cried Joe, tremulous and eager. His companion went away laughing. "Who 's your young friend?" asked Hattie. "A fellah from the South." "Bring him over here." Joe could hardly believe in his own good luck, and his head, which was getting a bit weak, was near collapsing when his divinity asked him what he 'd have? He began to protest, until she told the waiter with an air of authority to make it a little "'skey." Then she asked him for a cigarette, and began talking to him in a pleasant, soothing way between puffs. When the drinks came, she said to Thomas, "Now, old man, you 've been awfully nice, but when you get your little drink, you run away like a good little boy. You 're superfluous." Thomas answered, "Well, I like that," but obediently gulped his whiskey and withdrew, while Joe laughed until the master of ceremonies stood up and looked sternly at him. The concert had long been over and the room was less crowded when Thomas sauntered back to the pair. "Well, good-night," he said. "Guess you can find your way home, Mr. Hamilton;" and he gave Joe a long wink. "Goo'-night," said Joe, woozily, "I be a' ri'. Goo'-night." "Make it another 'skey," was Hattie's farewell remark. * * * * * It was late the next morning when Joe got home. He had a headache and a sense of triumph that not even his illness and his mother's reproof could subdue. He had promised Hattie to come often to the club. X A VISITOR FROM HOME Mrs. Hamilton began to question very seriously whether she had done the best thing in coming to New York as she saw her son staying away more and more and growing always farther away from her and his sister. Had she known how and where he spent his evenings, she would have had even greater cause to question the wisdom of their trip. She knew that although he worked he never had any money for the house, and she foresaw the time when the little they had would no longer suffice for Kitty and her.
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The Sport Of The Gods
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"Rachael,"
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Cecilia Jupe
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but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go
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fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go on a little by myself."
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it, and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go on a little by myself." She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a scream that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was the brink of a
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lamentations: Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand on the inside. "O the poor lad, the poor lad! He has been made away with. He is lying murdered here!" "Is there has the hat any blood upon it?" Sissy faltered. They were afraid to look; but they did examine it, and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go on a little by myself." She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a scream that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was the brink of a black ragged chasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprang back, and fell upon their knees, each hiding her face upon the other's neck. "O, my good Lord! He's down there! Down there!" At first this, and her terrific screams, were all that could be got from Rachael, by any
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it, her eyes were attracted by another of those rotten fragments of fence upon the ground. She got up to look at it. "And yet I don't know. This has not been broken very long. The wood is quite fresh where it gave way. Here are footsteps too. O Rachael!" She ran back, and caught her round the neck. Rachael had already started up. "What is the matter?" "I don't know. There is a hat lying in the grass." They went forward together. Rachael took it up, shaking from head to foot. She broke into a passion of tears and lamentations: Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand on the inside. "O the poor lad, the poor lad! He has been made away with. He is lying murdered here!" "Is there has the hat any blood upon it?" Sissy faltered. They were afraid to look; but they did examine it, and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go on a little by myself." She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a scream that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was the brink of a black ragged chasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprang back, and fell upon their knees, each hiding her face upon the other's neck. "O, my good Lord! He's down there! Down there!" At first this, and her terrific screams, were all that could be got from Rachael, by any tears, by any prayers, by any representations, by any means. It was impossible to hush her; and it was deadly necessary to hold her, or she would have flung herself down the shaft. "Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for the love of Heaven, not these dreadful cries! Think of Stephen, think of Stephen, think of Stephen!" By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, poured out in all the agony of such a moment, Sissy at last brought her to be silent, and to look at her with a tearless face of stone. "Rachael, Stephen may be living. You wouldn't leave
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peace. Engines at pits' mouths, and lean old horses that had worn the circle of their daily labour into the ground, were alike quiet; wheels had ceased for a short space to turn; and the great wheel of earth seemed to revolve without the shocks and noises of another time. They walked on across the fields and down the shady lanes, sometimes getting over a fragment of a fence so rotten that it dropped at a touch of the foot, sometimes passing near a wreck of bricks and beams overgrown with grass, marking the site of deserted works. They followed paths and tracks, however slight. Mounds where the grass was rank and high, and where brambles, dock-weed, and such-like vegetation, were confusedly heaped together, they always avoided; for dismal stories were told in that country of the old pits hidden beneath such indications. The sun was high when they sat down to rest. They had seen no one, near or distant, for a long time; and the solitude remained unbroken. "It is so still here, Rachael, and the way is so untrodden, that I think we must be the first who have been here all the summer." As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted by another of those rotten fragments of fence upon the ground. She got up to look at it. "And yet I don't know. This has not been broken very long. The wood is quite fresh where it gave way. Here are footsteps too. O Rachael!" She ran back, and caught her round the neck. Rachael had already started up. "What is the matter?" "I don't know. There is a hat lying in the grass." They went forward together. Rachael took it up, shaking from head to foot. She broke into a passion of tears and lamentations: Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand on the inside. "O the poor lad, the poor lad! He has been made away with. He is lying murdered here!" "Is there has the hat any blood upon it?" Sissy faltered. They were afraid to look; but they did examine it, and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go on a little by myself." She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a scream that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was the brink of a black ragged chasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprang back, and fell upon their knees, each hiding her face upon the other's neck. "O, my good Lord! He's down there! Down there!" At first this, and her terrific screams, were all that could be got from Rachael, by any tears, by any prayers, by any representations, by any means. It was impossible to hush her; and it was deadly necessary to hold her, or she would have flung herself down the shaft. "Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for the love of Heaven, not these dreadful cries! Think of Stephen, think of Stephen, think of Stephen!" By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, poured out in all the agony of such a moment, Sissy at last brought her to be silent, and to look at her with a tearless face of stone. "Rachael, Stephen may be living. You wouldn't leave him lying maimed at the bottom of this dreadful place, a moment, if you could bring help to him?" "No, no, no!" "Don't stir from here, for his sake! Let me go and listen." She shuddered to approach the pit; but she crept towards it on her hands and knees, and called to him as loud as she could call. She listened, but no sound replied. She called again and listened; still no answering sound. She did this, twenty, thirty times. She took a little clod of earth from the broken ground where he had stumbled, and threw it in. She could not hear it fall. The wide prospect, so beautiful in its stillness but a few minutes ago, almost carried despair to her brave heart, as she rose and looked all round her, seeing no help. "Rachael, we must lose not a moment. We must go in different directions, seeking aid. You shall go by the way we have come, and I will go forward by the path. Tell any one you see, and every one what has happened. Think of Stephen, think of Stephen!" She knew by Rachael's face that she might trust her now. And after standing
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confounded by Stephen's return, having put him out of the way. Louisa had never spoken of harbouring any suspicion of her brother in connexion with the robbery, she and Sissy had held no confidence on the subject, save in that one interchange of looks when the unconscious father rested his gray head on his hand; but it was understood between them, and they both knew it. This other fear was so awful, that it hovered about each of them like a ghostly shadow; neither daring to think of its being near herself, far less of its being near the other. And still the forced spirit which the whelp had plucked up, throve with him. If Stephen Blackpool was not the thief, let him show himself. Why didn't he? Another night. Another day and night. No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, and why did he not come back? CHAPTER VI THE STARLIGHT THE Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn, clear and cool, when early in the morning Sissy and Rachael met, to walk in the country. As Coketown cast ashes not only on its own head but on the neighbourhood's too after the manner of those pious persons who do penance for their own sins by putting other people into sackcloth it was customary for those who now and then thirsted for a draught of pure air, which is not absolutely the most wicked among the vanities of life, to get a few miles away by the railroad, and then begin their walk, or their lounge in the fields. Sissy and Rachael helped themselves out of the smoke by the usual means, and were put down at a station about midway between the town and Mr. Bounderby's retreat. Though the green landscape was blotted here and there with heaps of coal, it was green elsewhere, and there were trees to see, and there were larks singing (though it was Sunday), and there were pleasant scents in the air, and all was over-arched by a bright blue sky. In the distance one way, Coketown showed as a black mist; in another distance hills began to rise; in a third, there was a faint change in the light of the horizon where it shone upon the far-off sea. Under their feet, the grass was fresh; beautiful shadows of branches flickered upon it, and speckled it; hedgerows were luxuriant; everything was at peace. Engines at pits' mouths, and lean old horses that had worn the circle of their daily labour into the ground, were alike quiet; wheels had ceased for a short space to turn; and the great wheel of earth seemed to revolve without the shocks and noises of another time. They walked on across the fields and down the shady lanes, sometimes getting over a fragment of a fence so rotten that it dropped at a touch of the foot, sometimes passing near a wreck of bricks and beams overgrown with grass, marking the site of deserted works. They followed paths and tracks, however slight. Mounds where the grass was rank and high, and where brambles, dock-weed, and such-like vegetation, were confusedly heaped together, they always avoided; for dismal stories were told in that country of the old pits hidden beneath such indications. The sun was high when they sat down to rest. They had seen no one, near or distant, for a long time; and the solitude remained unbroken. "It is so still here, Rachael, and the way is so untrodden, that I think we must be the first who have been here all the summer." As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted by another of those rotten fragments of fence upon the ground. She got up to look at it. "And yet I don't know. This has not been broken very long. The wood is quite fresh where it gave way. Here are footsteps too. O Rachael!" She ran back, and caught her round the neck. Rachael had already started up. "What is the matter?" "I don't know. There is a hat lying in the grass." They went forward together. Rachael took it up, shaking from head to foot. She broke into a passion of tears and lamentations: Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand on the inside. "O the poor lad, the poor lad! He has been made away with. He is lying murdered here!" "Is there has the hat any blood upon it?" Sissy faltered. They were afraid to look; but they did examine it, and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go on a little by myself." She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a scream that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was the brink of a black ragged chasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprang back, and fell upon their knees, each hiding her face upon the other's neck. "O, my good Lord! He's down there! Down there!" At first this, and her terrific screams, were all that could be got from Rachael, by any tears, by any prayers, by any representations, by any means. It was impossible to hush her; and it was deadly necessary to hold her, or she would have flung herself down the shaft. "Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for the love of Heaven, not these dreadful cries! Think of Stephen, think of Stephen, think of Stephen!" By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, poured out in all the agony of such a moment, Sissy at last brought her to be silent, and to look at her with a tearless face of stone. "Rachael, Stephen may be living. You wouldn't leave him lying maimed at the bottom of this dreadful place, a moment, if you could bring help to him?" "No, no, no!" "Don't stir from here, for his sake! Let me go and listen." She shuddered to approach the pit; but she crept towards it on her hands and knees, and called to him as loud as she could call. She listened, but no sound replied. She called again and listened; still no answering sound. She did this, twenty, thirty times. She took a little clod of earth from the broken ground where he had stumbled, and threw it in. She could not hear it fall. The wide prospect, so beautiful in its stillness but a few minutes ago, almost carried despair to her brave heart, as she rose and looked all round her, seeing no help. "Rachael, we must lose not a moment. We must go in different directions, seeking aid. You shall go by the way we have come, and I will go forward by the path. Tell any one you see, and every one what has happened. Think of Stephen, think of Stephen!" She knew by Rachael's face that she might trust her now. And after standing for a moment to see her running, wringing her hands as she ran, she turned and went upon her own search; she stopped at the hedge to tie her shawl there as a guide to the place, then threw her bonnet aside, and ran as she had never run before. Run, Sissy, run, in Heaven's name! Don't stop for breath. Run, run! Quickening herself by carrying such entreaties in her thoughts, she ran from field to field, and lane to lane, and place to place, as she had never run before; until she came to a shed by an engine-house, where two men lay in the shade, asleep on straw. First to wake them, and next to tell them, all so wild and breathless as she was, what had brought her there, were difficulties; but they no sooner understood her than their spirits were on fire like hers. One of the men was in a drunken slumber, but on his comrade's shouting to him that a man had fallen down the Old Hell Shaft, he started out to a pool of dirty water, put his head in it, and came back sober. With these two men she ran to another half-a-mile further, and with that one to another, while they ran elsewhere. Then a horse was found; and she got another man to ride for life or death to the railroad, and send a message to Louisa, which she wrote and gave him. By this time a whole village was up: and windlasses, ropes, poles, candles, lanterns, all things necessary, were fast collecting and being brought into one place, to be carried to the Old Hell Shaft. It seemed now hours and hours since she had left the lost man lying in the grave where he had been buried alive. She could not bear to remain away from it any longer it was like deserting him and she hurried swiftly back, accompanied by half-a-dozen labourers, including the drunken man whom the news had sobered, and who was the best man of all. When they came to the Old Hell Shaft, they found it as lonely as she had left it. The men called and listened as she had done, and examined the edge of the chasm, and settled how it had happened, and then sat down to wait until the implements they wanted should come up. Every sound of insects
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of their daily labour into the ground, were alike quiet; wheels had ceased for a short space to turn; and the great wheel of earth seemed to revolve without the shocks and noises of another time. They walked on across the fields and down the shady lanes, sometimes getting over a fragment of a fence so rotten that it dropped at a touch of the foot, sometimes passing near a wreck of bricks and beams overgrown with grass, marking the site of deserted works. They followed paths and tracks, however slight. Mounds where the grass was rank and high, and where brambles, dock-weed, and such-like vegetation, were confusedly heaped together, they always avoided; for dismal stories were told in that country of the old pits hidden beneath such indications. The sun was high when they sat down to rest. They had seen no one, near or distant, for a long time; and the solitude remained unbroken. "It is so still here, Rachael, and the way is so untrodden, that I think we must be the first who have been here all the summer." As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted by another of those rotten fragments of fence upon the ground. She got up to look at it. "And yet I don't know. This has not been broken very long. The wood is quite fresh where it gave way. Here are footsteps too. O Rachael!" She ran back, and caught her round the neck. Rachael had already started up. "What is the matter?" "I don't know. There is a hat lying in the grass." They went forward together. Rachael took it up, shaking from head to foot. She broke into a passion of tears and lamentations: Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand on the inside. "O the poor lad, the poor lad! He has been made away with. He is lying murdered here!" "Is there has the hat any blood upon it?" Sissy faltered. They were afraid to look; but they did examine it, and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see nothing more.<|quote|>"Rachael,"</|quote|>Sissy whispered, "I will go on a little by myself." She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a scream that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was the brink of a black ragged chasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprang back, and fell upon their knees, each hiding her face upon the other's neck. "O, my good Lord! He's down there! Down there!" At first this, and her terrific screams, were all that could be got from Rachael, by any tears, by any prayers, by any representations, by any means. It was impossible to hush her; and it was deadly necessary to hold her, or she would have flung herself down the shaft. "Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for the love of Heaven, not these dreadful cries! Think of Stephen, think of Stephen, think of Stephen!" By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, poured out in all the agony of such a moment, Sissy at last brought her to be silent, and to look at her with a tearless face of stone. "Rachael, Stephen may be living. You wouldn't leave him lying maimed at the bottom of this dreadful place, a moment, if you could bring help to him?" "No, no, no!" "Don't stir from here, for his sake! Let me go and listen." She shuddered to approach the pit; but she crept towards it on her hands and knees, and called to him as loud as she could call. She listened, but no sound replied. She called again and listened; still no answering sound. She did this, twenty, thirty times. She took a little clod of earth from the broken ground where he had stumbled, and threw it in. She could not hear it fall. The wide prospect, so beautiful in its stillness but a few minutes ago, almost carried despair to her brave heart, as she rose and looked all round her, seeing no help. "Rachael, we must lose not a moment. We must go in different directions, seeking aid. You shall go by the way we have come, and I will go forward by the path. Tell any one you see, and every one what has happened. Think of Stephen, think of Stephen!" She knew by Rachael's face that she might trust her now. And after standing for a moment to see her running, wringing her hands as she ran, she turned and
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Hard Times
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"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"
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Madge
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to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say,"
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Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s
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of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s at Howards End. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in the eyes of
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of the Chilterns towered like a mountain. "Left to itself," was Margaret s opinion, "this county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key. But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s at Howards End. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery s niece. "I cannot let you go on alone. Now don t. You really mustn t. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now" "--roguishly--" "Mrs. Wilcox, don t you move while I m gone." Stunned, Margaret did not move
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followed it for over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, or about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The great estates that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive here, and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it was not snobbish. Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a mountain. "Left to itself," was Margaret s opinion, "this county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key. But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s at Howards End. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery s niece. "I cannot let you go on alone. Now don t. You really mustn t. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now" "--roguishly--" "Mrs. Wilcox, don t you move while I m gone." Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some
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more tempting approach could be imagined for the lukewarm Christian, and if he still finds the walk too long, the devil is defeated all the same, Science having built Holy Trinity, a Chapel of Ease, near the Charles s and roofed it with tin. Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches of the chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes on the lower branches. Why has not England a great mythology? Our folklore has never advanced beyond daintiness, and the greater melodies about our country-side have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, or give names to half a dozen stars. England still waits for the supreme moment of her literature--for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk. At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country. She followed it for over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, or about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The great estates that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive here, and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it was not snobbish. Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a mountain. "Left to itself," was Margaret s opinion, "this county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key. But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s at Howards End. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery s niece. "I cannot let you go on alone. Now don t. You really mustn t. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now" "--roguishly--" "Mrs. Wilcox, don t you move while I m gone." Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect--connect without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery s niece, and were so tranquillising that she suffered the interruption gladly. It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came
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"That s a notion. Give every one their due, eh? Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along, Mr. Muff--you want a new coat, but I don t know who ll give it you, I m sure;" and addressing her apparel with mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room. Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew about Miss Avery s rudeness. "Oh yes." "I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after the house." "But she s only a farm woman," said Dolly, and her explanation proved correct. Henry only censured the lower classes when it suited him. He bore with Miss Avery as with Crane--because he could get good value out of them. "I have patience with a man who knows his job," he would say, really having patience with the job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may sound, he had something of the artist about him; he would pass over an insult to his daughter sooner than lose a good charwoman for his wife. Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble herself. Parties were evidently ruffled. With Henry s permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery, asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the first convenient opportunity, she went down herself, intending to repack her belongings and store them properly in the local warehouse; the plan had been amateurish and a failure. Tibby promised to accompany her, but at the last moment begged to be excused. So, for the second time in her life, she entered the house alone. CHAPTER XXXIII The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of unclouded happiness that she was to have for many months. Her anxiety about Helen s extraordinary absence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush with Miss Avery--that only gave zest to the expedition. She had also eluded Dolly s invitation to luncheon. Walking straight up from the station, she crossed the village green and entered the long chestnut avenue that connects it with the church. The church itself stood in the village once. But it there attracted so many worshippers that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from its foundations, and poised it on an inconvenient knoll, three quarters of a mile away. If this story is true, the chestnut avenue must have been planted by the angels. No more tempting approach could be imagined for the lukewarm Christian, and if he still finds the walk too long, the devil is defeated all the same, Science having built Holy Trinity, a Chapel of Ease, near the Charles s and roofed it with tin. Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches of the chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes on the lower branches. Why has not England a great mythology? Our folklore has never advanced beyond daintiness, and the greater melodies about our country-side have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, or give names to half a dozen stars. England still waits for the supreme moment of her literature--for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk. At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country. She followed it for over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, or about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The great estates that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive here, and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it was not snobbish. Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a mountain. "Left to itself," was Margaret s opinion, "this county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key. But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s at Howards End. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery s niece. "I cannot let you go on alone. Now don t. You really mustn t. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now" "--roguishly--" "Mrs. Wilcox, don t you move while I m gone." Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect--connect without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery s niece, and were so tranquillising that she suffered the interruption gladly. It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible. "Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--" Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded
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waits for the supreme moment of her literature--for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk. At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country. She followed it for over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, or about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The great estates that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive here, and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it was not snobbish. Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a mountain. "Left to itself," was Margaret s opinion, "this county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, not passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for the key. But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by:<|quote|>"Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes,"</|quote|>Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s at Howards End. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery s niece. "I cannot let you go on alone. Now don t. You really mustn t. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now" "--roguishly--" "Mrs. Wilcox, don t you move while I m gone." Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect--connect without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery s niece, and were so tranquillising that she suffered the interruption gladly. It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up
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Howards End
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"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."
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Ralph Denham
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t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence
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s just when I don t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He
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live in. I believe I could sit and watch people all day long. I like my fellow-creatures...." Ralph sighed impatiently. "Yes, I think so, when you come to know them," she added, as if his disagreement had been spoken. "That s just when I don t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He seemed chilled. "Wake up, Ralph! You re half asleep!" Mary cried, turning and pinching his sleeve. "What have you been doing with yourself? Moping? Working? Despising the world, as usual?" As he merely shook his head, and filled his pipe,
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the streets, their mothers should keep them at home." Mary made no answer to this remark, but frowned. She leant back on the seat and looked about her at the great houses breaking the soft gray-blue sky with their chimneys. "Ah, well," she said, "London s a fine place to live in. I believe I could sit and watch people all day long. I like my fellow-creatures...." Ralph sighed impatiently. "Yes, I think so, when you come to know them," she added, as if his disagreement had been spoken. "That s just when I don t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He seemed chilled. "Wake up, Ralph! You re half asleep!" Mary cried, turning and pinching his sleeve. "What have you been doing with yourself? Moping? Working? Despising the world, as usual?" As he merely shook his head, and filled his pipe, she went on: "It s a bit of a pose, isn t it?" "Not more than most things," he said. "Well," Mary remarked, "I ve a great deal to say to you, but I must go on we have a committee." She rose, but hesitated, looking down upon him rather
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snort of impatience. "That s what always happens just as I ve almost got him," he said. "Here s your sixpence, Mary. But you ve only got it thanks to that brute of a boy. They oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops here" "Oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops! My dear Ralph, what nonsense!" "You always say that," he complained; "and it isn t nonsense. What s the point of having a garden if one can t watch birds in it? The street does all right for hoops. And if children can t be trusted in the streets, their mothers should keep them at home." Mary made no answer to this remark, but frowned. She leant back on the seat and looked about her at the great houses breaking the soft gray-blue sky with their chimneys. "Ah, well," she said, "London s a fine place to live in. I believe I could sit and watch people all day long. I like my fellow-creatures...." Ralph sighed impatiently. "Yes, I think so, when you come to know them," she added, as if his disagreement had been spoken. "That s just when I don t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He seemed chilled. "Wake up, Ralph! You re half asleep!" Mary cried, turning and pinching his sleeve. "What have you been doing with yourself? Moping? Working? Despising the world, as usual?" As he merely shook his head, and filled his pipe, she went on: "It s a bit of a pose, isn t it?" "Not more than most things," he said. "Well," Mary remarked, "I ve a great deal to say to you, but I must go on we have a committee." She rose, but hesitated, looking down upon him rather gravely. "You don t look happy, Ralph," she said. "Is it anything, or is it nothing?" He did not immediately answer her, but rose, too, and walked with her towards the gate. As usual, he did not speak to her without considering whether what he was about to say was the sort of thing that he could say to her. "I ve been bothered," he said at length. "Partly by work, and partly by family troubles. Charles has been behaving like a fool. He wants to go out to Canada as a farmer" "Well, there s something to be said
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in which a few facts were communicated, he suggested sitting down, and she took the seat beside him. The sparrows came fluttering about them, and Ralph produced from his pocket the half of a roll saved from his luncheon. He threw a few crumbs among them. "I ve never seen sparrows so tame," Mary observed, by way of saying something. "No," said Ralph. "The sparrows in Hyde Park aren t as tame as this. If we keep perfectly still, I ll get one to settle on my arm." Mary felt that she could have forgone this display of animal good temper, but seeing that Ralph, for some curious reason, took a pride in the sparrows, she bet him sixpence that he would not succeed. "Done!" he said; and his eye, which had been gloomy, showed a spark of light. His conversation was now addressed entirely to a bald cock-sparrow, who seemed bolder than the rest; and Mary took the opportunity of looking at him. She was not satisfied; his face was worn, and his expression stern. A child came bowling its hoop through the concourse of birds, and Ralph threw his last crumbs of bread into the bushes with a snort of impatience. "That s what always happens just as I ve almost got him," he said. "Here s your sixpence, Mary. But you ve only got it thanks to that brute of a boy. They oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops here" "Oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops! My dear Ralph, what nonsense!" "You always say that," he complained; "and it isn t nonsense. What s the point of having a garden if one can t watch birds in it? The street does all right for hoops. And if children can t be trusted in the streets, their mothers should keep them at home." Mary made no answer to this remark, but frowned. She leant back on the seat and looked about her at the great houses breaking the soft gray-blue sky with their chimneys. "Ah, well," she said, "London s a fine place to live in. I believe I could sit and watch people all day long. I like my fellow-creatures...." Ralph sighed impatiently. "Yes, I think so, when you come to know them," she added, as if his disagreement had been spoken. "That s just when I don t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He seemed chilled. "Wake up, Ralph! You re half asleep!" Mary cried, turning and pinching his sleeve. "What have you been doing with yourself? Moping? Working? Despising the world, as usual?" As he merely shook his head, and filled his pipe, she went on: "It s a bit of a pose, isn t it?" "Not more than most things," he said. "Well," Mary remarked, "I ve a great deal to say to you, but I must go on we have a committee." She rose, but hesitated, looking down upon him rather gravely. "You don t look happy, Ralph," she said. "Is it anything, or is it nothing?" He did not immediately answer her, but rose, too, and walked with her towards the gate. As usual, he did not speak to her without considering whether what he was about to say was the sort of thing that he could say to her. "I ve been bothered," he said at length. "Partly by work, and partly by family troubles. Charles has been behaving like a fool. He wants to go out to Canada as a farmer" "Well, there s something to be said for that," said Mary; and they passed the gate, and walked slowly round the Fields again, discussing difficulties which, as a matter of fact, were more or less chronic in the Denham family, and only now brought forward to appease Mary s sympathy, which, however, soothed Ralph more than he was aware of. She made him at least dwell upon problems which were real in the sense that they were capable of solution; and the true cause of his melancholy, which was not susceptible to such treatment, sank rather more deeply into the shades of his mind. Mary was attentive; she was helpful. Ralph could not help feeling grateful to her, the more so, perhaps, because he had not told her the truth about his state; and when they reached the gate again he wished to make some affectionate objection to her leaving him. But his affection took the rather uncouth form of expostulating with her about her work. "What d you want to sit on a committee for?" he asked. "It s waste of your time, Mary." "I agree with you that a country walk would benefit the world more," she said. "Look here," she added suddenly, "why don
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future, have to find his way. But that was all there was left to him of a populous and teeming world. CHAPTER XIII The lunch hour in the office was only partly spent by Denham in the consumption of food. Whether fine or wet, he passed most of it pacing the gravel paths in Lincoln s Inn Fields. The children got to know his figure, and the sparrows expected their daily scattering of bread-crumbs. No doubt, since he often gave a copper and almost always a handful of bread, he was not as blind to his surroundings as he thought himself. He thought that these winter days were spent in long hours before white papers radiant in electric light; and in short passages through fog-dimmed streets. When he came back to his work after lunch he carried in his head a picture of the Strand, scattered with omnibuses, and of the purple shapes of leaves pressed flat upon the gravel, as if his eyes had always been bent upon the ground. His brain worked incessantly, but his thought was attended with so little joy that he did not willingly recall it; but drove ahead, now in this direction, now in that; and came home laden with dark books borrowed from a library. Mary Datchet, coming from the Strand at lunch-time, saw him one day taking his turn, closely buttoned in an overcoat, and so lost in thought that he might have been sitting in his own room. She was overcome by something very like awe by the sight of him; then she felt much inclined to laugh, although her pulse beat faster. She passed him, and he never saw her. She came back and touched him on the shoulder. "Gracious, Mary!" he exclaimed. "How you startled me!" "Yes. You looked as if you were walking in your sleep," she said. "Are you arranging some terrible love affair? Have you got to reconcile a desperate couple?" "I wasn t thinking about my work," Ralph replied, rather hastily. "And, besides, that sort of thing s not in my line," he added, rather grimly. The morning was fine, and they had still some minutes of leisure to spend. They had not met for two or three weeks, and Mary had much to say to Ralph; but she was not certain how far he wished for her company. However, after a turn or two, in which a few facts were communicated, he suggested sitting down, and she took the seat beside him. The sparrows came fluttering about them, and Ralph produced from his pocket the half of a roll saved from his luncheon. He threw a few crumbs among them. "I ve never seen sparrows so tame," Mary observed, by way of saying something. "No," said Ralph. "The sparrows in Hyde Park aren t as tame as this. If we keep perfectly still, I ll get one to settle on my arm." Mary felt that she could have forgone this display of animal good temper, but seeing that Ralph, for some curious reason, took a pride in the sparrows, she bet him sixpence that he would not succeed. "Done!" he said; and his eye, which had been gloomy, showed a spark of light. His conversation was now addressed entirely to a bald cock-sparrow, who seemed bolder than the rest; and Mary took the opportunity of looking at him. She was not satisfied; his face was worn, and his expression stern. A child came bowling its hoop through the concourse of birds, and Ralph threw his last crumbs of bread into the bushes with a snort of impatience. "That s what always happens just as I ve almost got him," he said. "Here s your sixpence, Mary. But you ve only got it thanks to that brute of a boy. They oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops here" "Oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops! My dear Ralph, what nonsense!" "You always say that," he complained; "and it isn t nonsense. What s the point of having a garden if one can t watch birds in it? The street does all right for hoops. And if children can t be trusted in the streets, their mothers should keep them at home." Mary made no answer to this remark, but frowned. She leant back on the seat and looked about her at the great houses breaking the soft gray-blue sky with their chimneys. "Ah, well," she said, "London s a fine place to live in. I believe I could sit and watch people all day long. I like my fellow-creatures...." Ralph sighed impatiently. "Yes, I think so, when you come to know them," she added, as if his disagreement had been spoken. "That s just when I don t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He seemed chilled. "Wake up, Ralph! You re half asleep!" Mary cried, turning and pinching his sleeve. "What have you been doing with yourself? Moping? Working? Despising the world, as usual?" As he merely shook his head, and filled his pipe, she went on: "It s a bit of a pose, isn t it?" "Not more than most things," he said. "Well," Mary remarked, "I ve a great deal to say to you, but I must go on we have a committee." She rose, but hesitated, looking down upon him rather gravely. "You don t look happy, Ralph," she said. "Is it anything, or is it nothing?" He did not immediately answer her, but rose, too, and walked with her towards the gate. As usual, he did not speak to her without considering whether what he was about to say was the sort of thing that he could say to her. "I ve been bothered," he said at length. "Partly by work, and partly by family troubles. Charles has been behaving like a fool. He wants to go out to Canada as a farmer" "Well, there s something to be said for that," said Mary; and they passed the gate, and walked slowly round the Fields again, discussing difficulties which, as a matter of fact, were more or less chronic in the Denham family, and only now brought forward to appease Mary s sympathy, which, however, soothed Ralph more than he was aware of. She made him at least dwell upon problems which were real in the sense that they were capable of solution; and the true cause of his melancholy, which was not susceptible to such treatment, sank rather more deeply into the shades of his mind. Mary was attentive; she was helpful. Ralph could not help feeling grateful to her, the more so, perhaps, because he had not told her the truth about his state; and when they reached the gate again he wished to make some affectionate objection to her leaving him. But his affection took the rather uncouth form of expostulating with her about her work. "What d you want to sit on a committee for?" he asked. "It s waste of your time, Mary." "I agree with you that a country walk would benefit the world more," she said. "Look here," she added suddenly, "why don t you come to us at Christmas? It s almost the best time of year." "Come to you at Disham?" Ralph repeated. "Yes. We won t interfere with you. But you can tell me later," she said, rather hastily, and then started off in the direction of Russell Square. She had invited him on the impulse of the moment, as a vision of the country came before her; and now she was annoyed with herself for having done so, and then she was annoyed at being annoyed. "If I can t face a walk in a field alone with Ralph," she reasoned, "I d better buy a cat and live in a lodging at Ealing, like Sally Seal and he won t come. Or did he mean that he _would_ come?" She shook her head. She really did not know what he had meant. She never felt quite certain; but now she was more than usually baffled. Was he concealing something from her? His manner had been odd; his deep absorption had impressed her; there was something in him that she had not fathomed, and the mystery of his nature laid more of a spell upon her than she liked. Moreover, she could not prevent herself from doing now what she had often blamed others of her sex for doing from endowing her friend with a kind of heavenly fire, and passing her life before it for his sanction. Under this process, the committee rather dwindled in importance; the Suffrage shrank; she vowed she would work harder at the Italian language; she thought she would take up the study of birds. But this program for a perfect life threatened to become so absurd that she very soon caught herself out in the evil habit, and was rehearsing her speech to the committee by the time the chestnut-colored bricks of Russell Square came in sight. Indeed, she never noticed them. She ran upstairs as usual, and was completely awakened to reality by the sight of Mrs. Seal, on the landing outside the office, inducing a very large dog to drink water out of a tumbler. "Miss Markham has already arrived," Mrs. Seal remarked, with due solemnity, "and this is her dog." "A very fine dog, too," said Mary, patting him on the head. "Yes. A magnificent fellow," Mrs. Seal agreed. "A kind of St. Bernard, she tells me so like Kit
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expression stern. A child came bowling its hoop through the concourse of birds, and Ralph threw his last crumbs of bread into the bushes with a snort of impatience. "That s what always happens just as I ve almost got him," he said. "Here s your sixpence, Mary. But you ve only got it thanks to that brute of a boy. They oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops here" "Oughtn t to be allowed to bowl hoops! My dear Ralph, what nonsense!" "You always say that," he complained; "and it isn t nonsense. What s the point of having a garden if one can t watch birds in it? The street does all right for hoops. And if children can t be trusted in the streets, their mothers should keep them at home." Mary made no answer to this remark, but frowned. She leant back on the seat and looked about her at the great houses breaking the soft gray-blue sky with their chimneys. "Ah, well," she said, "London s a fine place to live in. I believe I could sit and watch people all day long. I like my fellow-creatures...." Ralph sighed impatiently. "Yes, I think so, when you come to know them," she added, as if his disagreement had been spoken. "That s just when I don t like them," he replied.<|quote|>"Still, I don t see why you shouldn t cherish that illusion, if it pleases you."</|quote|>He spoke without much vehemence of agreement or disagreement. He seemed chilled. "Wake up, Ralph! You re half asleep!" Mary cried, turning and pinching his sleeve. "What have you been doing with yourself? Moping? Working? Despising the world, as usual?" As he merely shook his head, and filled his pipe, she went on: "It s a bit of a pose, isn t it?" "Not more than most things," he said. "Well," Mary remarked, "I ve a great deal to say to you, but I must go on we have a committee." She rose, but hesitated, looking down upon him rather gravely. "You don t look happy, Ralph," she said. "Is it anything, or is it nothing?" He did not immediately answer her, but rose, too, and walked with her towards the gate. As usual, he did not speak to her without considering whether what he was about to say was the sort of thing that he could say to her. "I ve been bothered," he said at length. "Partly by work, and partly by family troubles. Charles has been behaving like a fool. He wants to go out to Canada as a farmer" "Well, there s something to be said for that," said Mary; and they passed the gate, and walked slowly round the Fields again, discussing difficulties which, as a matter of fact, were more or less chronic in the Denham family, and only now brought forward to appease Mary s sympathy, which, however, soothed Ralph more than he was aware of. She made him at least dwell upon problems which were real in the sense that they were capable of solution; and the true cause of his melancholy, which was not susceptible to such treatment, sank rather more deeply into the shades of his mind. Mary was attentive; she was helpful. Ralph could not help feeling grateful to her, the more so, perhaps, because he had not told her the truth about his state; and when they reached the gate again he wished to make some affectionate objection to her leaving him. But his affection took the rather uncouth form of expostulating with her about her work. "What d you want to
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Night And Day
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which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--
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No speaker
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do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think.
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the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have
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upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took
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others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but
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Hawkins!--Good morning to you." Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same
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be plain, and that you yourself--" "Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him plain." "Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good morning to you." Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me too--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh!
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our neighbours.--My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is pork--a roast loin of pork--" "As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted with her," said Emma, "nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks." Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings, Emma said, "You are silent, Miss Fairfax--but I hope you mean to take an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell's account--we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins." "When I have seen Mr. Elton," replied Jane, "I dare say I shall be interested--but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off." "Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse," said Miss Bates, "four weeks yesterday.--A Miss Hawkins!--Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I ever--Mrs. Cole once whispered to me--but I immediately said," 'No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man--but' "--In short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired--Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in person--tall, and with that sort of look--and not very talkative." "Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all." "Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand. One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?" "Handsome! Oh! no--far from it--certainly plain. I told you he was plain." "My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain, and that you yourself--" "Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him plain." "Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good morning to you." Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me too--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I did--but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make me comfortable again." Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly comfortable herself. The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her--they must be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of Harriet's description?--So easily pleased--so little discerning;--what signified her praise? She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt on, "It might be distressing, for the moment," said she; "but you seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over--and may never--can never, as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about it." Harriet said, "very true," and she "would not think about it;" but still she talked of it--still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet--such a conclusion of Mr. Elton's importance with her!
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you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?" "Handsome! Oh! no--far from it--certainly plain. I told you he was plain." "My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain, and that you yourself--" "Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him plain." "Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good morning to you." Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"<|quote|>which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--</|quote|>"Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me too--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I did--but I hardly knew
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Emma
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Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.
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No speaker
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to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have
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awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have such a setting down that
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source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help
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"What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?"
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one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white
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at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation. "About that dreadful afternoon in February." Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that
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go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady. She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path. "No--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him. As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone. Chapter XVI: Lying to George But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by deep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea--tell mother--I must write some letters," and went up to her room. Then she prepared for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must stifle it. She sent for Miss Bartlett. The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of the views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her old shibboleth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown." Tampering with the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped for battle. "Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her cousin arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?" Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation. "About that dreadful afternoon in February." Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can
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conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"<|quote|>Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.</|quote|>"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the
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A Room With A View
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said Mr. Bumble.
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No speaker
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hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his
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beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed
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Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as
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marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some
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toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!" rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; "so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them
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again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!" rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; "so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea. "Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron's face; "are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" "Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, "what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?" The beadle drank his tea to the
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away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer." "Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?" interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!" "Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!" rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; "so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea. "Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron's face; "are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" "Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, "what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?" The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron. "Mr. Bumble!" cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice, "Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!" Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron's waist. As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there. It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity. "If you please, mistress," said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door, "Old Sally is a-going fast." "Well, what's that to me?" angrily demanded the matron. "I can't keep her alive, can I?" "No, no, mistress," replied the old woman, "nobody can; she's far beyond the reach of help. I've seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough. But she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her, and that's not often, for she is dying very hard, she says she has got something to tell, which you must hear. She'll never die quiet till you come, mistress." At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectives against old women who couldn't even die without purposely annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way. Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal,
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The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!" rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; "so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?"<|quote|>said Mr. Bumble.</|quote|>"Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge
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Oliver Twist
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he said with mock severity.
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No speaker
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or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’
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you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my
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and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I
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behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so that he could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.” “You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.” The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair
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be in a great huff. For a while he was too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a few minutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile. “I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to look well screwed up that way,” he said provokingly. I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect. “Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said. “I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so that he could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.” “You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.” The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvas slippers—not at all fitted for walking the eight miles on the hard hot road ahead of me. I walked resolutely on, without deigning a glance at Harold, who had slowed down to a crawling walk. “Aren’t you ready to get up now?” he inquired presently. I did not reply. At the end of a quarter of a mile he jumped out of the buggy, seized upon me, lifted me in, and laughed, saying, “You’re a very slashing little concern, but you are not big enough to do much damage.” We were about half-way home when Barney
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alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.” “No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.” I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’s seat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hat to Mrs Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off. I was highly delighted with his action, as I would have despised him as a booby had he given in to me, but I did not let my satisfaction appear. I sat as far away from him as possible, and pretended to be in a great huff. For a while he was too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a few minutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile. “I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to look well screwed up that way,” he said provokingly. I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect. “Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said. “I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so that he could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.” “You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.” The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvas slippers—not at all fitted for walking the eight miles on the hard hot road ahead of me. I walked resolutely on, without deigning a glance at Harold, who had slowed down to a crawling walk. “Aren’t you ready to get up now?” he inquired presently. I did not reply. At the end of a quarter of a mile he jumped out of the buggy, seized upon me, lifted me in, and laughed, saying, “You’re a very slashing little concern, but you are not big enough to do much damage.” We were about half-way home when Barney gave a tremendous lurch, breaking a trace and some other straps. Mr Beecham was at the head of the plunging horse in a twinkling. The harness seemed to be scattered everywhere. “I expect I had better walk on now,” I remarked. “Walk, be grannied! With two fat lazy horses to draw you?” returned Mr Beecham. Men are clumsy, stupid creatures regarding little things, but in their right place they are wonderful animals. If a buggy was smashed to smithereens, from one of their many mysterious pockets they would produce a knife and some string, and put the wreck into working order in no time. Harold was as clever in this way as any other man with as much bushman ability as he had, so it was not long ere we were bowling along as merrily as ever. Just before we came in sight of Caddagat he came to a standstill, jumped to the ground, untied Warrigal, and put the reins in my hand, saying: “I think you can get home safely from here. Don’t be in such a huff—I was afraid something might happen you if alone. You needn’t mention that I came with you unless you like. Good-bye.” “Good-bye,
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The dust rose in thick clouds, the stones rattled from the whirling wheels, the chirr! chirr! of a myriad cicadas filled the air, and the white road glistened in the dazzling sunlight. I was enjoying myself tip-top, and chuckled to think of the way I had euchred Frank Hawden. It was such a good joke that I considered it worth two of the blowings-up I was sure of getting from grannie for my conduct. It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap homestead, where, tethered to the “six-foot” paling fence which surrounded the flower-garden, was Harold Beecham’s favourite, great, black, saddle-horse Warrigal. The vicious brute turned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snorted as I approached. His master appeared on the veranda raising his soft panama hat, and remarking, “Well I never! You’re not by yourself, are you?” “I am. Would you please tell Mrs Butler to bring out grannie’s parcels and post at once. I’m afraid to dawdle, it’s getting late.” He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute. “Mr Beecham, please would you examine Barney’s harness. Something must be hurting him. He has been kicking up all the way.” Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from the animals, panting from their run, he said: “It looks as though you’ve been making the pace a cracker. There is nothing that is irritating Barney in the least. If he’s putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?” “I’m not frightened,” I replied. “I see you’re not. You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.” “You cannot stop me.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,” he said. “You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re not.” “I am”. “You are, ar-r-re not.” “We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.” “No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.” I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’s seat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hat to Mrs Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off. I was highly delighted with his action, as I would have despised him as a booby had he given in to me, but I did not let my satisfaction appear. I sat as far away from him as possible, and pretended to be in a great huff. For a while he was too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a few minutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile. “I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to look well screwed up that way,” he said provokingly. I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect. “Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said. “I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so that he could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.” “You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.” The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvas slippers—not at all fitted for walking the eight miles on the hard hot road ahead of me. I walked resolutely on, without deigning a glance at Harold, who had slowed down to a crawling walk. “Aren’t you ready to get up now?” he inquired presently. I did not reply. At the end of a quarter of a mile he jumped out of the buggy, seized upon me, lifted me in, and laughed, saying, “You’re a very slashing little concern, but you are not big enough to do much damage.” We were about half-way home when Barney gave a tremendous lurch, breaking a trace and some other straps. Mr Beecham was at the head of the plunging horse in a twinkling. The harness seemed to be scattered everywhere. “I expect I had better walk on now,” I remarked. “Walk, be grannied! With two fat lazy horses to draw you?” returned Mr Beecham. Men are clumsy, stupid creatures regarding little things, but in their right place they are wonderful animals. If a buggy was smashed to smithereens, from one of their many mysterious pockets they would produce a knife and some string, and put the wreck into working order in no time. Harold was as clever in this way as any other man with as much bushman ability as he had, so it was not long ere we were bowling along as merrily as ever. Just before we came in sight of Caddagat he came to a standstill, jumped to the ground, untied Warrigal, and put the reins in my hand, saying: “I think you can get home safely from here. Don’t be in such a huff—I was afraid something might happen you if alone. You needn’t mention that I came with you unless you like. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, Mr Beecham. Thank you for being so officious,” I said by way of a parting shot. “Old Nick will run away with you for being so ungrateful,” he returned. “Old Nick will have me anyhow,” I thought to myself as I drove home amid the shadows. The hum of the cicadas was still, and dozens of rabbits, tempted out by the cool of the twilight, scuttled across my path and hid in the ferns. I wished the harness had not broken, as I feared it would put a clincher on my being allowed out driving alone in future. Joe Slocombe, the man who acted as groom and rouseabout, was waiting for me at the entrance gate. “I’m glad you come at last, Miss Sybyller. The missus has been in a dreadful stoo for fear something had happened yuz. She’s been runnin’ in an’ out like a gurrl on the look-out fer her lover, and was torkin’ of sendin’ me after yuz, but she went to her tea soon as she see the buggy come in sight. I’ll put all the parcels on the back veranda, and yuz can go in at woncest or yuz’ll be late fer yer tea.” “Joe, the harness broke and had to be tied up. That is what kept me so late,” I explained. “The harness broke!” he exclaimed. “How the doose is that! Broke here in the trace, and that strap! Well, I’ll be hanged! I thought them straps couldn’t break only onder a tremenjous strain. The boss is so dashed partickler too. I believe he’ll sool me off the place; and I looked at that harness only yesterday. I can’t make out how it come to break so simple. The boss will rise the devil of a shine, and say you might have been killed.” This put a different complexion on things. I knew Joe Slocombe could mend the harness with little trouble, as it was because he was what uncle Jay-Jay termed a “handy divil” at saddlery that he was retained at Caddagat. I said carelessly: “If you mend the harness at once, Joe, uncle Julius need not be bothered about it. As it happened, there is no harm done, and I won’t mention the matter.” “Thank you, miss,” he said eagerly. “I’ll mend it at once.” Now that I had that piece of business so luckily disposed of, I did not feel
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see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.” “No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.” I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’s seat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hat to Mrs Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off. I was highly delighted with his action, as I would have despised him as a booby had he given in to me, but I did not let my satisfaction appear. I sat as far away from him as possible, and pretended to be in a great huff. For a while he was too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a few minutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile. “I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to look well screwed up that way,” he said provokingly. I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect. “Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said. “I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so that he could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,”<|quote|>he said with mock severity.</|quote|>“Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.” “You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.” The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvas slippers—not at all fitted for walking the eight miles on the hard hot road ahead of me. I walked resolutely on, without deigning a glance at Harold, who had slowed down to a crawling walk. “Aren’t you ready to get up now?” he inquired presently. I did not reply. At the end of a quarter of a mile he jumped out of the buggy, seized upon me, lifted me in, and laughed, saying, “You’re a very slashing little concern, but you are not big enough to do much damage.” We were about half-way home when Barney gave a tremendous lurch, breaking a trace and some other straps. Mr Beecham was at the head of the plunging horse in a twinkling. The harness seemed to be scattered everywhere. “I expect I had better walk on now,” I remarked. “Walk, be grannied! With two fat lazy horses to draw you?” returned Mr Beecham. Men are clumsy, stupid creatures regarding little things, but in their right place they are wonderful animals. If a buggy was smashed to smithereens, from one of their many mysterious pockets they would produce a knife and some string, and put the wreck into working order in no time. Harold was as clever in this way as any other man with as much bushman ability as he had, so it was not long ere we were bowling along as merrily as ever. Just before we came in sight of Caddagat he came to a standstill, jumped to the ground, untied Warrigal, and put the reins in my hand, saying: “I think you can get home safely from here. Don’t be in such a huff—I was afraid something might happen you if alone. You needn’t mention that I came with you unless you like. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, Mr Beecham. Thank you for being so officious,” I said by way of a parting shot. “Old Nick will run away with you for being so ungrateful,” he returned. “Old Nick will have me anyhow,” I thought to myself as I drove home amid the shadows. The hum of the cicadas was still, and dozens of rabbits, tempted out by the cool of the twilight, scuttled across my path and hid in the ferns. I wished the harness had not broken, as I feared it would put a clincher on my being allowed out driving alone in future. Joe Slocombe, the man who acted as groom and rouseabout, was waiting for me at the entrance gate. “I’m glad you come at last, Miss Sybyller. The missus has been in a dreadful stoo for fear something had happened yuz. She’s been runnin’ in an’ out like a gurrl on the look-out fer her lover, and was torkin’ of sendin’ me after yuz, but she went to her tea soon
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My Brilliant Career
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with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:
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No speaker
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in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to
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the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady.
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"It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose.
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The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst
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his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be
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the lady." "Come!" said the man, pushing her towards the door. "None of this. Take yourself off." "I shall be carried out if I go!" said the girl violently; "and I can make that a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here," she said, looking round, "that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?" This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere. "Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?" said this person. "What's the good?" replied the man. "You don't suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?" This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel. "Do what you like with me," said the girl, turning to the men again; "but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty's sake." The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and
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strike the hour in another quarter," said the man: raising his lantern to her face. "And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more," muttered Nancy: brushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street. Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues through which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the West-End of London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She tore along the narrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side; and darting almost under the horses' heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of persons were eagerly watching their opportunity to do the like. "The woman is mad!" said the people, turning to look after her as she rushed away. When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she neared her place of destination, she was alone. It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to the spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter's seat was vacant. She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs. "Now, young woman!" said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door behind her, "who do you want here?" "A lady who is stopping in this house," answered the girl. "A lady!" was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. "What lady?" "Miss Maylie," said Nancy. The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeated her request. "What name am I to say?" asked the waiter. "It's of no use saying any," replied Nancy. "Nor business?" said the man. "No, nor that neither," rejoined the girl. "I must see the lady." "Come!" said the man, pushing her towards the door. "None of this. Take yourself off." "I shall be carried out if I go!" said the girl violently; "and I can make that a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here," she said, looking round, "that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?" This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere. "Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?" said this person. "What's the good?" replied the man. "You don't suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?" This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel. "Do what you like with me," said the girl, turning to the men again; "but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty's sake." The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose, "I understand." "That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of
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She had loitered for a few paces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter's seat was vacant. She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs. "Now, young woman!" said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door behind her, "who do you want here?" "A lady who is stopping in this house," answered the girl. "A lady!" was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. "What lady?" "Miss Maylie," said Nancy. The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeated her request. "What name am I to say?" asked the waiter. "It's of no use saying any," replied Nancy. "Nor business?" said the man. "No, nor that neither," rejoined the girl. "I must see the lady." "Come!" said the man, pushing her towards the door. "None of this. Take yourself off." "I shall be carried out if I go!" said the girl violently; "and I can make that a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here," she said, looking round, "that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?" This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere. "Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?" said this person. "What's the good?" replied the man. "You don't suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?" This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel. "Do what you like with me," said the girl, turning to the men again; "but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty's sake." The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of "Shameful!"<|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:</|quote|>"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the
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Oliver Twist
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"That is all my business."
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Hercule Poirot
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back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?"
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a few minutes he was back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity.
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Just say that to him, and see what he says." "Very well but it's all extremely mysterious." We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist." Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity. "I left something to be analysed." "Yes, but what?" "The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom." "But that has already been tested!" I cried, stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at
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and you can rest in peace!" "' Nothing more. Nothing less." " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "Is that right?" I asked, much mystified. "Excellent." "But what does it mean?" "Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says." "Very well but it's all extremely mysterious." We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist." Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity. "I left something to be analysed." "Yes, but what?" "The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom." "But that has already been tested!" I cried, stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it." "I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested," replied Poirot quietly. "Well, then?" "Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all." And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him. This proceeding of Poirot's,
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you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?" "Don't you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?" "Oh ah yes." He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me." "Certainly. What is it?" "Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. I have a message for you, from Poirot. He says:" "Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!" "' Nothing more. Nothing less." " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "Is that right?" I asked, much mystified. "Excellent." "But what does it mean?" "Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says." "Very well but it's all extremely mysterious." We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist." Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity. "I left something to be analysed." "Yes, but what?" "The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom." "But that has already been tested!" I cried, stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it." "I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested," replied Poirot quietly. "Well, then?" "Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all." And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him. This proceeding of Poirot's, in respect of the cocoa, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp's innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated. The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he should have completed his plans. "And really it's a great
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one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess." "And that is?" "That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive." I reflected. "Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head. "But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?" Poirot smiled. "That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead." "Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may" But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped. "No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much it was not in Miss Howard's favour." I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter. "Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?" "Don't you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?" "Oh ah yes." He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me." "Certainly. What is it?" "Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. I have a message for you, from Poirot. He says:" "Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!" "' Nothing more. Nothing less." " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "Is that right?" I asked, much mystified. "Excellent." "But what does it mean?" "Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says." "Very well but it's all extremely mysterious." We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist." Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity. "I left something to be analysed." "Yes, but what?" "The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom." "But that has already been tested!" I cried, stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it." "I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested," replied Poirot quietly. "Well, then?" "Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all." And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him. This proceeding of Poirot's, in respect of the cocoa, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp's innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated. The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he should have completed his plans. "And really it's a great relief to think he's going, Hastings," continued my honest friend. "It was bad enough before, when we thought he'd done it, but I'm hanged if it isn't worse now, when we all feel guilty for having been so down on the fellow. The fact is, we've treated him abominably. Of course, things did look black against him. I don't see how anyone could blame us for jumping to the conclusions we did. Still, there it is, we were in the wrong, and now there's a beastly feeling that one ought to make amends; which is difficult, when one doesn't like the fellow a bit better than one did before. The whole thing's damned awkward! And I'm thankful he's had the tact to take himself off. It's a good thing Styles wasn't the mater's to leave to him. Couldn't bear to think of the fellow lording it here. He's welcome to her money." "You'll be able to keep up the place all right?" I asked. "Oh, yes. There are the death duties, of course, but half my father's money goes with the place, and Lawrence will stay with us for the present, so there is his share as well. We shall
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my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed. "Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess." "And that is?" "That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive." I reflected. "Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head. "But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?" Poirot smiled. "That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead." "Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may" But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped. "No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much it was not in Miss Howard's favour." I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter. "Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?" "Don't you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?" "Oh ah yes." He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me." "Certainly. What is it?" "Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. I have a message for you, from Poirot. He says:" "Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!" "' Nothing more. Nothing less." " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "Is that right?" I asked, much mystified. "Excellent." "But what does it mean?" "Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says." "Very well but it's all extremely mysterious." We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist." Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity. "I left something to be analysed." "Yes, but what?" "The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom." "But that has already been tested!" I cried, stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it." "I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested," replied Poirot quietly. "Well, then?" "Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all." And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him. This proceeding of Poirot's, in respect of the cocoa, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp's innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated. The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he should have completed his plans. "And really it's a great relief to think he's going, Hastings," continued my honest friend. "It was bad enough before, when we thought he'd done it, but I'm hanged if it isn't worse now, when we all feel guilty for having been so down on the fellow. The fact is, we've treated him abominably. Of course, things did look black against him. I don't see how anyone could blame us for jumping to the conclusions we did. Still, there it is, we were in the wrong, and now there's a beastly feeling that one ought to make amends; which is difficult, when one doesn't like the fellow a bit better than one did before. The whole thing's damned awkward! And I'm thankful he's had the tact to take himself off. It's a good thing Styles wasn't the mater's to leave to him. Couldn't bear to think of the fellow lording it here. He's welcome to her money." "You'll be able to keep up the place all right?" I asked. "Oh, yes. There are the death duties, of course, but half my father's money goes with the place, and Lawrence will stay with us for the present, so there is his share as well. We shall be pinched at first, of course, because, as I once told you, I am in a bit of a hole financially myself. Still, the Johnnies will wait now." In the general relief at Inglethorp's approaching departure, we had the most genial breakfast we had experienced since the tragedy. Cynthia, whose young spirits were naturally buoyant, was looking quite her pretty self again, and we all, with the exception of Lawrence, who seemed unalterably gloomy and nervous, were quietly cheerful, at the opening of a new and hopeful future. The papers, of course, had been full of the tragedy. Glaring headlines, sandwiched biographies of every member of the household, subtle innuendoes, the usual familiar tag about the police having a clue. Nothing was spared us. It was a slack time. The war was momentarily inactive, and the newspapers seized with avidity on this crime in fashionable life: "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" was the topic of the moment. Naturally it was very annoying for the Cavendishes. The house was constantly besieged by reporters, who were consistently denied admission, but who continued to haunt the village and the grounds, where they lay in wait with cameras, for any unwary members of the household. We all lived in a blast of publicity. The Scotland Yard men came and went, examining, questioning, lynx-eyed and reserved of tongue. Towards what end they were working, we did not know. Had they any clue, or would the whole thing remain in the category of undiscovered crimes? After breakfast, Dorcas came up to me rather mysteriously, and asked if she might have a few words with me. "Certainly. What is it, Dorcas?" "Well, it's just this, sir. You'll be seeing the Belgian gentleman to-day perhaps?" I nodded. "Well, sir, you know how he asked me so particular if the mistress, or anyone else, had a green dress?" "Yes, yes. You have found one?" My interest was aroused. "No, not that, sir. But since then I've remembered what the young gentlemen" John and Lawrence were still the "young gentlemen" to Dorcas "call the dressing-up box.' It's up in the front attic, sir. A great chest, full of old clothes and fancy dresses, and what not. And it came to me sudden like that there might be a green dress amongst them. So, if you'd tell the Belgian gentleman" "I will tell him, Dorcas," I promised. "Thank you very much,
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own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed. "Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess." "And that is?" "That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive." I reflected. "Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head. "But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?" Poirot smiled. "That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead." "Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may" But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped. "No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much it was not in Miss Howard's favour." I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter. "Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?" "Don't you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?" "Oh ah yes." He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me." "Certainly. What is it?" "Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. I have a message for you, from Poirot. He says:" "Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!" "' Nothing more. Nothing less." " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "Is that right?" I asked, much mystified. "Excellent." "But what does it mean?" "Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says." "Very well but it's all extremely mysterious." We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist." Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again. "There," he said.<|quote|>"That is all my business."</|quote|>"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity. "I left something to be analysed." "Yes, but what?" "The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom." "But that has already been tested!" I cried, stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it." "I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested," replied Poirot quietly. "Well, then?" "Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all." And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him. This proceeding of Poirot's, in respect of the cocoa, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp's innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated. The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he should have completed his plans. "And really it's a great relief to think he's going, Hastings,"
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."
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Lucy Steele
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never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the
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acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They
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the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not
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look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that
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_occasion_ for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister s suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. Elinor s security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy s countenance suffered no change. "I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I
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have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward s honour and love, and her companion s falsehood "Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars! I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." "We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name." "No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister s suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. Elinor s security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy s countenance suffered no change. "I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t other day, when Edward s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can t think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward s sake these last four years. Every
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he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle s care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward s honour and love, and her companion s falsehood "Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars! I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." "We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name." "No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister s suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. Elinor s security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy s countenance suffered no change. "I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t other day, when Edward s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can t think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward s sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke." Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate. "Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too so dear as he is to me I don t think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?" "Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you." "To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill." "Did he come from your uncle s, then, when he visited us?" "Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?" "No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy s veracity; "I remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. "Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy. "We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived." "I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am afraid it is just the same
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Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name." "No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister s suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. Elinor s security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy,<|quote|>"to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."</|quote|>"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy s countenance suffered no change. "I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t other day, when Edward s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can t think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward s sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke." Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate. "Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too so dear as he is to me I don t think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?" "Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give
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Sense And Sensibility
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"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."
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Mr. Turton
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Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me
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over charge of this District?" Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me officially, sir?" The Collector, who
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my question. Why did you not stand when Mr. Heaslop entered?" "With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer questions, but to make a personal statement, and I have concluded it." "May I ask whether you have taken over charge of this District?" Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me officially, sir?" The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so infuriated that he lost his head. He cried, "Leave this room at once, and I deeply regret that I demeaned myself to meet you at the station. You have sunk to the level of your
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conclude my statement?" "Certainly." "I am waiting for the verdict of the courts. If he is guilty I resign from my service, and leave India. I resign from the club now." "Hear, hear!" said voices, not entirely hostile, for they liked the fellow for speaking out. "You have not answered my question. Why did you not stand when Mr. Heaslop entered?" "With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer questions, but to make a personal statement, and I have concluded it." "May I ask whether you have taken over charge of this District?" Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me officially, sir?" The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so infuriated that he lost his head. He cried, "Leave this room at once, and I deeply regret that I demeaned myself to meet you at the station. You have sunk to the level of your associates; you are weak, weak, that is what is wrong with you" "I want to leave the room, but cannot while this gentleman prevents me," said Fielding lightly; the subaltern had got across his path. "Let him go," said Ronny, almost in tears. It was the only appeal that could
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you swine." "Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from standing up?" said the Collector, entering the fray at last. It was the attack for which Fielding had waited, and to which he must reply. "May I make a statement, sir?" "Certainly." Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of nationality or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for him a comparatively easy thing. He stood up and said, "I believe Dr. Aziz to be innocent." "You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, but pray is that any reason why you should insult Mr. Heaslop?" "May I conclude my statement?" "Certainly." "I am waiting for the verdict of the courts. If he is guilty I resign from my service, and leave India. I resign from the club now." "Hear, hear!" said voices, not entirely hostile, for they liked the fellow for speaking out. "You have not answered my question. Why did you not stand when Mr. Heaslop entered?" "With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer questions, but to make a personal statement, and I have concluded it." "May I ask whether you have taken over charge of this District?" Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me officially, sir?" The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so infuriated that he lost his head. He cried, "Leave this room at once, and I deeply regret that I demeaned myself to meet you at the station. You have sunk to the level of your associates; you are weak, weak, that is what is wrong with you" "I want to leave the room, but cannot while this gentleman prevents me," said Fielding lightly; the subaltern had got across his path. "Let him go," said Ronny, almost in tears. It was the only appeal that could have saved the situation. Whatever Heaslop wished must be done. There was a slight scuffle at the door, from which Fielding was propelled, a little more quickly than is natural, into the room where the ladies were playing cards. "Fancy if I'd fallen or got angry," he thought. Of course he was a little angry. His peers had never offered him violence or called him weak before, besides Heaslop had heaped coals of fire on his head. He wished he had not picked the quarrel over poor suffering Heaslop, when there were cleaner issues at hand. However, there it was,
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to listen what has been decided." "Heaslop, I'm telling them I'm against any show of force," said the Collector apologetically. "I don't know whether you will feel as I do, but that is how I am situated. When the verdict is obtained, it will be another matter." "You are sure to know best; I have no experience, Burra Sahib." "How is your mother, old boy?" "Better, thank you. I wish everyone would sit down." "Some have never got up," the young soldier said. "And the Major brings us an excellent report of Miss Quested," Turton went on. "I do, I do, I'm satisfied." "You thought badly of her earlier, did you not, Major? That's why I refused bail." Callendar laughed with friendly inwardness, and said, "Heaslop, Heaslop, next time bail's wanted, ring up the old doctor before giving it; his shoulders are broad, and, speaking in the strictest confidence, don't take the old doctor's opinion too seriously. He's a blithering idiot, we can always leave it at that, but he'll do the little he can towards keeping in quod the" He broke off with affected politeness. "Oh, but he has one of his friends here." The subaltern called, "Stand up, you swine." "Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from standing up?" said the Collector, entering the fray at last. It was the attack for which Fielding had waited, and to which he must reply. "May I make a statement, sir?" "Certainly." Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of nationality or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for him a comparatively easy thing. He stood up and said, "I believe Dr. Aziz to be innocent." "You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, but pray is that any reason why you should insult Mr. Heaslop?" "May I conclude my statement?" "Certainly." "I am waiting for the verdict of the courts. If he is guilty I resign from my service, and leave India. I resign from the club now." "Hear, hear!" said voices, not entirely hostile, for they liked the fellow for speaking out. "You have not answered my question. Why did you not stand when Mr. Heaslop entered?" "With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer questions, but to make a personal statement, and I have concluded it." "May I ask whether you have taken over charge of this District?" Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me officially, sir?" The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so infuriated that he lost his head. He cried, "Leave this room at once, and I deeply regret that I demeaned myself to meet you at the station. You have sunk to the level of your associates; you are weak, weak, that is what is wrong with you" "I want to leave the room, but cannot while this gentleman prevents me," said Fielding lightly; the subaltern had got across his path. "Let him go," said Ronny, almost in tears. It was the only appeal that could have saved the situation. Whatever Heaslop wished must be done. There was a slight scuffle at the door, from which Fielding was propelled, a little more quickly than is natural, into the room where the ladies were playing cards. "Fancy if I'd fallen or got angry," he thought. Of course he was a little angry. His peers had never offered him violence or called him weak before, besides Heaslop had heaped coals of fire on his head. He wished he had not picked the quarrel over poor suffering Heaslop, when there were cleaner issues at hand. However, there it was, done, muddled through, and to cool himself and regain mental balance he went on to the upper verandah for a moment, where the first object he saw was the Marabar Hills. At this distance and hour they leapt into beauty; they were Monsalvat, Walhalla, the towers of a cathedral, peopled with saints and heroes, and covered with flowers. What miscreant lurked in them, presently to be detected by the activities of the law? Who was the guide, and had he been found yet? What was the "echo" of which the girl complained? He did not know, but presently he would know. Great is information, and she shall prevail. It was the last moment of the light, and as he gazed at the Marabar Hills they seemed to move graciously towards him like a queen, and their charm became the sky's. At the moment they vanished they were everywhere, the cool benediction of the night descended, the stars sparkled, and the whole universe was a hill. Lovely, exquisite moment but passing the Englishman with averted face and on swift wings. He experienced nothing himself; it was as if someone had told him there was such a moment, and he was obliged
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He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had befallen him, and they, in instinctive homage, rose to their feet. But every human act in the East is tainted with officialism, and while honouring him they condemned Aziz and India. Fielding realized this, and he remained seated. It was an ungracious, a caddish thing to do, perhaps an unsound thing to do, but he felt he had been passive long enough, and that he might be drawn into the wrong current if he did not make a stand. Ronny, who had not seen him, said in husky tones, "Oh please please all sit down, I only want to listen what has been decided." "Heaslop, I'm telling them I'm against any show of force," said the Collector apologetically. "I don't know whether you will feel as I do, but that is how I am situated. When the verdict is obtained, it will be another matter." "You are sure to know best; I have no experience, Burra Sahib." "How is your mother, old boy?" "Better, thank you. I wish everyone would sit down." "Some have never got up," the young soldier said. "And the Major brings us an excellent report of Miss Quested," Turton went on. "I do, I do, I'm satisfied." "You thought badly of her earlier, did you not, Major? That's why I refused bail." Callendar laughed with friendly inwardness, and said, "Heaslop, Heaslop, next time bail's wanted, ring up the old doctor before giving it; his shoulders are broad, and, speaking in the strictest confidence, don't take the old doctor's opinion too seriously. He's a blithering idiot, we can always leave it at that, but he'll do the little he can towards keeping in quod the" He broke off with affected politeness. "Oh, but he has one of his friends here." The subaltern called, "Stand up, you swine." "Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from standing up?" said the Collector, entering the fray at last. It was the attack for which Fielding had waited, and to which he must reply. "May I make a statement, sir?" "Certainly." Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of nationality or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for him a comparatively easy thing. He stood up and said, "I believe Dr. Aziz to be innocent." "You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, but pray is that any reason why you should insult Mr. Heaslop?" "May I conclude my statement?" "Certainly." "I am waiting for the verdict of the courts. If he is guilty I resign from my service, and leave India. I resign from the club now." "Hear, hear!" said voices, not entirely hostile, for they liked the fellow for speaking out. "You have not answered my question. Why did you not stand when Mr. Heaslop entered?" "With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer questions, but to make a personal statement, and I have concluded it." "May I ask whether you have taken over charge of this District?" Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me officially, sir?" The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so infuriated that he lost his head. He cried, "Leave this room at once, and I deeply regret that I demeaned myself to meet you at the station. You have sunk to the level of your associates; you are weak, weak, that is what is wrong with you" "I want to leave the room, but cannot while this gentleman prevents me," said Fielding lightly; the subaltern had got across his path. "Let him go," said Ronny, almost in tears. It was the only appeal that could have saved the situation. Whatever Heaslop wished must be done. There was a slight scuffle at the door, from which Fielding was propelled, a little more quickly than is natural, into the room where the ladies were playing cards. "Fancy if I'd fallen or got angry," he thought. Of course he was a little angry. His peers had never offered him violence or called him weak before, besides Heaslop had heaped coals of fire on his head. He wished he had not picked the quarrel over poor suffering Heaslop, when there were cleaner issues at hand. However, there it was, done, muddled through, and to cool himself and regain mental balance he went on to the upper verandah for a moment, where the first object he saw was the Marabar Hills. At this distance and hour they leapt into beauty; they were Monsalvat, Walhalla, the towers of a cathedral, peopled with saints and heroes, and covered with flowers. What miscreant lurked in them, presently to be detected by the activities of the law? Who was the guide, and had he been found yet? What was the "echo" of which the girl complained? He did not know, but presently he would know. Great is information, and she shall prevail. It was the last moment of the light, and as he gazed at the Marabar Hills they seemed to move graciously towards him like a queen, and their charm became the sky's. At the moment they vanished they were everywhere, the cool benediction of the night descended, the stars sparkled, and the whole universe was a hill. Lovely, exquisite moment but passing the Englishman with averted face and on swift wings. He experienced nothing himself; it was as if someone had told him there was such a moment, and he was obliged to believe. And he felt dubious and discontented suddenly, and wondered whether he was really and truly successful as a human being. After forty years' experience, he had learnt to manage his life and make the best of it on advanced European lines, had developed his personality, explored his limitations, controlled his passions and he had done it all without becoming either pedantic or worldly. A creditable achievement, but as the moment passed, he felt he ought to have been working at something else the whole time, he didn't know at what, never would know, never could know, and that was why he felt sad. CHAPTER XXI Dismissing his regrets, as inappropriate to the matter in hand, he accomplished the last section of the day by riding off to his new allies. He was glad that he had broken with the club, for he would have picked up scraps of gossip there, and reported them down in the city, and he was glad to be denied this opportunity. He would miss his billiards, and occasional tennis, and cracks with McBryde, but really that was all, so light did he travel. At the entrance of the bazaars, a tiger made his horse shy a youth dressed up as a tiger, the body striped brown and yellow, a mask over the face. Mohurram was working up. The city beat a good many drums, but seemed good-tempered. He was invited to inspect a small tazia a flimsy and frivolous erection, more like a crinoline than the tomb of the grandson of the Prophet, done to death at Kerbela. Excited children were pasting coloured paper over its ribs. The rest of the evening he spent with the Nawab Bahadur, Hamidullah, Mahmoud Ali, and others of the confederacy. The campaign was also working up. A telegram had been sent to the famous Amritrao, and his acceptance received. Application for bail was to be renewed it could not well be withheld now that Miss Quested was out of danger. The conference was serious and sensible, but marred by a group of itinerant musicians, who were allowed to play in the compound. Each held a large earthenware jar, containing pebbles, and jerked it up and down in time to a doleful chant. Distracted by the noise, he suggested their dismissal, but the Nawab Bahadur vetoed it; he said that musicians, who had walked many miles, might bring
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to listen what has been decided." "Heaslop, I'm telling them I'm against any show of force," said the Collector apologetically. "I don't know whether you will feel as I do, but that is how I am situated. When the verdict is obtained, it will be another matter." "You are sure to know best; I have no experience, Burra Sahib." "How is your mother, old boy?" "Better, thank you. I wish everyone would sit down." "Some have never got up," the young soldier said. "And the Major brings us an excellent report of Miss Quested," Turton went on. "I do, I do, I'm satisfied." "You thought badly of her earlier, did you not, Major? That's why I refused bail." Callendar laughed with friendly inwardness, and said, "Heaslop, Heaslop, next time bail's wanted, ring up the old doctor before giving it; his shoulders are broad, and, speaking in the strictest confidence, don't take the old doctor's opinion too seriously. He's a blithering idiot, we can always leave it at that, but he'll do the little he can towards keeping in quod the" He broke off with affected politeness. "Oh, but he has one of his friends here." The subaltern called, "Stand up, you swine." "Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from standing up?" said the Collector, entering the fray at last. It was the attack for which Fielding had waited, and to which he must reply. "May I make a statement, sir?" "Certainly." Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of nationality or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for him a comparatively easy thing. He stood up and said, "I believe Dr. Aziz to be innocent." "You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, but pray is that any reason why you should insult Mr. Heaslop?" "May I conclude my statement?" "Certainly." "I am waiting for the verdict of the courts. If he is guilty I resign from my service, and leave India. I resign from the club now." "Hear, hear!" said voices, not entirely hostile, for they liked the fellow for speaking out. "You have not answered my question. Why did you not stand when Mr. Heaslop entered?" "With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer questions, but to make a personal statement, and I have concluded it." "May I ask whether you have taken over charge of this District?" Fielding moved towards the door.<|quote|>"One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, please. Before you leave the club, from which you do very well to resign, you will express some detestation of the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop."</|quote|>"Are you speaking to me officially, sir?" The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so infuriated that he lost his head. He cried, "Leave this room at once, and I deeply regret that I demeaned myself to meet you at the station. You have sunk to the level of your associates; you are weak, weak, that is what is wrong with you" "I want to leave the room, but cannot while this gentleman prevents me," said Fielding lightly; the subaltern had got across his path. "Let him go," said Ronny, almost in tears. It was the only appeal that could have saved the situation. Whatever Heaslop wished must be done. There was a slight scuffle at the door, from which Fielding was propelled, a little more quickly than is natural, into the room where the ladies were playing cards. "Fancy if I'd fallen or got angry," he thought. Of course he was a little angry. His peers had never offered him violence or called him weak before, besides Heaslop had heaped coals of fire on his head. He wished he had not picked the quarrel over poor suffering Heaslop, when there were cleaner issues at hand. However, there it was, done, muddled through, and to cool himself and regain mental balance he went on to the upper verandah for a moment, where the first object he saw was the Marabar Hills. At this distance and hour they leapt into beauty; they were Monsalvat, Walhalla, the towers of a cathedral, peopled with saints and heroes, and covered with flowers. What miscreant lurked in them, presently to be detected by the activities of the law? Who was the guide, and had he been found yet? What was the "echo" of which the girl complained? He did not know, but presently he would know. Great is information, and she shall prevail. It was the last moment of the light, and as he gazed at the Marabar Hills they seemed to move graciously towards him like a queen, and their charm became the sky's. At the moment they vanished they were everywhere, the cool benediction of the night descended, the stars sparkled, and the whole universe was a hill. Lovely, exquisite moment but passing the Englishman with averted face and on swift wings. He experienced nothing himself; it was as if someone had told him there was such a moment, and he was obliged to believe. And he felt dubious and discontented suddenly, and wondered whether he was really and truly successful as a human being. After forty years' experience, he had learnt to manage his life and make the best of it on advanced European lines, had developed his personality, explored his limitations, controlled his passions and he had done it all without becoming either pedantic or worldly. A creditable achievement, but as the moment passed, he felt he ought to have been working at something else the whole time, he didn't know at what, never would know, never could know, and that was why he felt sad. CHAPTER XXI Dismissing his regrets, as inappropriate to the matter in hand, he accomplished the last section of the day by riding off to his new allies. He was glad that he had broken with the club, for he would have picked up scraps of gossip there, and reported them down in the city, and he was glad to be denied this opportunity. He would miss his billiards, and occasional
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A Passage To India
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“All right, old sport,”
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Gatsby
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a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down.
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“jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from
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Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” “I was able to do
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neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” “I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.” Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a
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that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.” “Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?” “No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.” I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn. He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” “I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.” Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world. A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island
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circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.” “Turn it.” “Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.” “Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.” It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand. Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart. “I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.” “At lunch?” “No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.” “Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?” “No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.” I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn. He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” “I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.” Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world. A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry. “Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all …” Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. “Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.” A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness. “—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?” “What?” I inquired politely. But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his
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this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all. “What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually. “San Francisco.” “I see.” “My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.” His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise. “After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.” With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne. “Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!” Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines. He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm. “That’s the one from Montenegro.” To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.” “Turn it.” “Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.” “Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.” It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand. Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart. “I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.” “At lunch?” “No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.” “Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?” “No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.” I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn. He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” “I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.” Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world. A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry. “Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all …” Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. “Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.” A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness. “—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?” “What?” I inquired politely. But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. “Highballs?” asked the head waiter. “This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!” “Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.” “Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.” “What place is that?” I asked. “The old Metropole.” “The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair. “ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’ “It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.” “Did he go?” I asked innocently. “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed. “This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.” “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc
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I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You’ll hear about it this afternoon.” “At lunch?” “No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.” “Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?” “No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.” I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn. He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.<|quote|>“All right, old sport,”</|quote|>called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” “I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.” Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world. A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry. “Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all …” Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. “Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.” A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine
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The Great Gatsby
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"Dorian,"
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Basil Hallward
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native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not
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that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad
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country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over
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how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And
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in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister s name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories stories that you have been seen
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the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?" "Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister s name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don t know what is said about you. I won t tell you that I don t want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don t shrug your shoulders like that. Don t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a
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I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." "I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty." "They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind you, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know him came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?" "Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister s name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don t know what is said about you. I won t tell you that I don t want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don t shrug your shoulders like that. Don t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don t know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd that I knew you thoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul." "To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "Yes," answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his voice, "to see your soul. But only God can do that." A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "You shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn t you look at it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face." There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. "Yes," he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that you fancy only God can see." Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "You must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don t
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at the Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?" "Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."<|quote|>"Dorian,"</|quote|>cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister s name a by-word." "Take care, Basil. You go too far." "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don t know what is said about you. I won t tell you that I don t want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don t shrug your shoulders like that. Don t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don t know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.
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No speaker
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of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he
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head, and uttered a yell of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know
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the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse." So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together:
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knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop. At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse." So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all. But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what
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risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion. Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop. At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse." So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all. But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head. "See there, there!" cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; "that's the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh
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from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street, joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left: each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with impatience to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, increased. The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion. Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop. At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse." So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all. But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head. "See there, there!" cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; "that's the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!" "You will see him soon," replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. "You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too." "Yes, yes," said Oliver, "and we'll we'll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well, shall we?" Rose nodded "yes," for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak. "You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one," said Oliver. "It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again I know that too to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said God bless you' to me when I ran away," cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; "and I will say God bless
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the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream. He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet. The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud. The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him. On pressed the people from the front on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch. "They have him now," cried a man on the nearest bridge. "Hurrah!" The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose. "I will give fifty pounds," cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, "to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he come to ask me for it." There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street, joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left: each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, and all panting with impatience to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, increased. The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion. Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop. At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse." So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all. But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head. "See there, there!" cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; "that's the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!" "You will see him soon," replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. "You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too." "Yes, yes," said Oliver, "and we'll we'll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well, shall we?" Rose nodded "yes," for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak. "You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one," said Oliver. "It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again I know that too to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said God bless you' to me when I ran away," cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; "and I will say God bless you' now, and show him how I love him for it!" As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds. There was Sowerberry's the undertaker's just as it used to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some slight incident connected there was Gamfield's cart, the very cart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the street there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed again there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew quite well there was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream. But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove straight to the door of the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a mighty palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic. Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly
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to get near the door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from the murderer, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, increased. The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion. Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop. At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down at that very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror. "The eyes again!"<|quote|>he cried in an unearthly screech. Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand. The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains. CHAPTER LI. AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him: and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.</|quote|>"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse." So, they travelled on in silence: each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together: and no one disposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all. But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot: a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head. "See there, there!" cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; "that's the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child! Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!" "You will see him soon," replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own. "You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too." "Yes, yes," said Oliver, "and we'll we'll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well, shall we?" Rose nodded "yes," for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak. "You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one," said Oliver. "It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again I know that too to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said God bless you' to me when I ran away," cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; "and I will say God bless you' now, and show him how I love him for it!" As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds.
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Oliver Twist
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"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"
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The General
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old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a
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he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and
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by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly" "Fibs, fibs!" interrupted the Grandmother. "How on earth, too, did you come to decide upon the journey?" continued the General, with raised voice as he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and will use my best endeavours to render your stay here as pleasant as possible." "Enough! All this is empty chatter. You are talking the usual nonsense. I shall know quite well how to spend my time. How did I come
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sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain extent, recovered his senses; and inasmuch as, when occasion arose, he could speak with fluency, gravity, and a certain effect, he set himself to be expansive in his remarks, and went on: "We have been so dismayed and upset by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly" "Fibs, fibs!" interrupted the Grandmother. "How on earth, too, did you come to decide upon the journey?" continued the General, with raised voice as he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and will use my best endeavours to render your stay here as pleasant as possible." "Enough! All this is empty chatter. You are talking the usual nonsense. I shall know quite well how to spend my time. How did I come to undertake the journey, you ask? Well, is there anything so very surprising about it? It was done quite simply. What is every one going into ecstasies about? How do you do, Prascovia? What are _you_ doing here?" "And how are _you_, Grandmother?" replied Polina, as she approached the old
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Mlle. Blanche with an elegant, ceremonious bow as, under cover of an unwonted modesty, she endeavoured to express, both in face and figure, her extreme surprise at such strange behaviour on the part of the Grandmother. "How the woman sticks out her eyes at me! How she mows and minces!" was the Grandmother s comment. Then she turned suddenly to the General, and continued: "I have taken up my abode here, so am going to be your next-door neighbour. Are you glad to hear that, or are you not?" "My dear mother, believe me when I say that I am sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain extent, recovered his senses; and inasmuch as, when occasion arose, he could speak with fluency, gravity, and a certain effect, he set himself to be expansive in his remarks, and went on: "We have been so dismayed and upset by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly" "Fibs, fibs!" interrupted the Grandmother. "How on earth, too, did you come to decide upon the journey?" continued the General, with raised voice as he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and will use my best endeavours to render your stay here as pleasant as possible." "Enough! All this is empty chatter. You are talking the usual nonsense. I shall know quite well how to spend my time. How did I come to undertake the journey, you ask? Well, is there anything so very surprising about it? It was done quite simply. What is every one going into ecstasies about? How do you do, Prascovia? What are _you_ doing here?" "And how are _you_, Grandmother?" replied Polina, as she approached the old lady. "Were you long on the journey?" "The most sensible question that I have yet been asked! Well, you shall hear for yourself how it all happened. I lay and lay, and was doctored and doctored, until at last I drove the physicians from me, and called in an apothecary from Nicolai who had cured an old woman of a malady similar to my own cured her merely with a little hayseed. Well, he did me a great deal of good, for on the third day I broke into a sweat, and was able to leave my bed. Then my
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Monsieur de Griers, I suppose?" "Oui, madame," assented De Griers. "Et, croyez, je suis si enchant ! Votre sant c est un miracle vous voir ici. Une surprise charmante!" "Just so. Charmante! I happen to know you as a mountebank, and therefore trust you no more than _this_." She indicated her little finger. "And who is _that?_" she went on, turning towards Mlle. Blanche. Evidently the Frenchwoman looked so becoming in her riding-habit, with her whip in her hand, that she had made an impression upon the old lady. "Who is that woman there?" "Mlle. de Cominges," I said. "And this is her mother, Madame de Cominges. They also are staying in the hotel." "Is the daughter married?" asked the old lady, without the least semblance of ceremony. "No," I replied as respectfully as possible, but under my breath. "Is she good company?" I failed to understand the question. "I mean, is she or is she not a bore? Can she speak Russian? When this De Griers was in Moscow he soon learnt to make himself understood." I explained to the old lady that Mlle. Blanche had never visited Russia. "Bonjour, then," said Madame, with sudden brusquerie. "Bonjour, madame," replied Mlle. Blanche with an elegant, ceremonious bow as, under cover of an unwonted modesty, she endeavoured to express, both in face and figure, her extreme surprise at such strange behaviour on the part of the Grandmother. "How the woman sticks out her eyes at me! How she mows and minces!" was the Grandmother s comment. Then she turned suddenly to the General, and continued: "I have taken up my abode here, so am going to be your next-door neighbour. Are you glad to hear that, or are you not?" "My dear mother, believe me when I say that I am sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain extent, recovered his senses; and inasmuch as, when occasion arose, he could speak with fluency, gravity, and a certain effect, he set himself to be expansive in his remarks, and went on: "We have been so dismayed and upset by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly" "Fibs, fibs!" interrupted the Grandmother. "How on earth, too, did you come to decide upon the journey?" continued the General, with raised voice as he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and will use my best endeavours to render your stay here as pleasant as possible." "Enough! All this is empty chatter. You are talking the usual nonsense. I shall know quite well how to spend my time. How did I come to undertake the journey, you ask? Well, is there anything so very surprising about it? It was done quite simply. What is every one going into ecstasies about? How do you do, Prascovia? What are _you_ doing here?" "And how are _you_, Grandmother?" replied Polina, as she approached the old lady. "Were you long on the journey?" "The most sensible question that I have yet been asked! Well, you shall hear for yourself how it all happened. I lay and lay, and was doctored and doctored, until at last I drove the physicians from me, and called in an apothecary from Nicolai who had cured an old woman of a malady similar to my own cured her merely with a little hayseed. Well, he did me a great deal of good, for on the third day I broke into a sweat, and was able to leave my bed. Then my German doctors held another consultation, put on their spectacles, and told me that if I would go abroad, and take a course of the waters, the indisposition would finally pass away. Why should it not? I thought to myself. So I had got things ready, and on the following day, a Friday, set out for here. I occupied a special compartment in the train, and where ever I had to change I found at the station bearers who were ready to carry me for a few coppers. You have nice quarters here," she went on as she glanced around the room. "But where on earth did you get the money for them, my good sir? I thought that everything of yours had been mortgaged? This Frenchman alone must be your creditor for a good deal. Oh, I know all about it, all about it." "I-I am surprised at you, my dearest mother," said the General in some confusion. "I-I am greatly surprised. But I do not need any extraneous control of my finances. Moreover, my expenses do not exceed my income, and we" "They do not exceed it? Fie! Why, you are robbing your children of their last kopeck you,
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Blanche and De Griers had been making a great deal of the young Prince, under the very nose of the poor General. In short, the company, though decorous and conventional, was in a gay, familiar mood. But no sooner did the Grandmother appear than the General stopped dead in the middle of a word, and, with jaw dropping, stared hard at the old lady his eyes almost starting out of his head, and his expression as spellbound as though he had just seen a basilisk. In return, the Grandmother stared at him silently and without moving though with a look of mingled challenge, triumph, and ridicule in her eyes. For ten seconds did the pair remain thus eyeing one another, amid the profound silence of the company; and even De Griers sat petrified an extraordinary look of uneasiness dawning on his face. As for Mlle. Blanche, she too stared wildly at the Grandmother, with eyebrows raised and her lips parted while the Prince and the German savant contemplated the tableau in profound amazement. Only Polina looked anything but perplexed or surprised. Presently, however, she too turned as white as a sheet, and then reddened to her temples. Truly the Grandmother s arrival seemed to be a catastrophe for everybody! For my own part, I stood looking from the Grandmother to the company, and back again, while Mr. Astley, as usual, remained in the background, and gazed calmly and decorously at the scene. "Well, here I am and instead of a telegram, too!" the Grandmother at last ejaculated, to dissipate the silence. "What? You were not expecting me?" "Antonida Vassilievna! O my dearest mother! But how on earth did you, did you ?" The mutterings of the unhappy General died away. I verily believe that if the Grandmother had held her tongue a few seconds longer she would have had a stroke. "How on earth did I _what?_" she exclaimed. "Why, I just got into the train and came here. What else is the railway meant for? But you thought that I had turned up my toes and left my property to the lot of you. Oh, I know _all_ about the telegrams which you have been dispatching. They must have cost you a pretty sum, I should think, for telegrams are not sent from abroad for nothing. Well, I picked up my heels, and came here. Who is this Frenchman? Monsieur de Griers, I suppose?" "Oui, madame," assented De Griers. "Et, croyez, je suis si enchant ! Votre sant c est un miracle vous voir ici. Une surprise charmante!" "Just so. Charmante! I happen to know you as a mountebank, and therefore trust you no more than _this_." She indicated her little finger. "And who is _that?_" she went on, turning towards Mlle. Blanche. Evidently the Frenchwoman looked so becoming in her riding-habit, with her whip in her hand, that she had made an impression upon the old lady. "Who is that woman there?" "Mlle. de Cominges," I said. "And this is her mother, Madame de Cominges. They also are staying in the hotel." "Is the daughter married?" asked the old lady, without the least semblance of ceremony. "No," I replied as respectfully as possible, but under my breath. "Is she good company?" I failed to understand the question. "I mean, is she or is she not a bore? Can she speak Russian? When this De Griers was in Moscow he soon learnt to make himself understood." I explained to the old lady that Mlle. Blanche had never visited Russia. "Bonjour, then," said Madame, with sudden brusquerie. "Bonjour, madame," replied Mlle. Blanche with an elegant, ceremonious bow as, under cover of an unwonted modesty, she endeavoured to express, both in face and figure, her extreme surprise at such strange behaviour on the part of the Grandmother. "How the woman sticks out her eyes at me! How she mows and minces!" was the Grandmother s comment. Then she turned suddenly to the General, and continued: "I have taken up my abode here, so am going to be your next-door neighbour. Are you glad to hear that, or are you not?" "My dear mother, believe me when I say that I am sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain extent, recovered his senses; and inasmuch as, when occasion arose, he could speak with fluency, gravity, and a certain effect, he set himself to be expansive in his remarks, and went on: "We have been so dismayed and upset by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly" "Fibs, fibs!" interrupted the Grandmother. "How on earth, too, did you come to decide upon the journey?" continued the General, with raised voice as he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and will use my best endeavours to render your stay here as pleasant as possible." "Enough! All this is empty chatter. You are talking the usual nonsense. I shall know quite well how to spend my time. How did I come to undertake the journey, you ask? Well, is there anything so very surprising about it? It was done quite simply. What is every one going into ecstasies about? How do you do, Prascovia? What are _you_ doing here?" "And how are _you_, Grandmother?" replied Polina, as she approached the old lady. "Were you long on the journey?" "The most sensible question that I have yet been asked! Well, you shall hear for yourself how it all happened. I lay and lay, and was doctored and doctored, until at last I drove the physicians from me, and called in an apothecary from Nicolai who had cured an old woman of a malady similar to my own cured her merely with a little hayseed. Well, he did me a great deal of good, for on the third day I broke into a sweat, and was able to leave my bed. Then my German doctors held another consultation, put on their spectacles, and told me that if I would go abroad, and take a course of the waters, the indisposition would finally pass away. Why should it not? I thought to myself. So I had got things ready, and on the following day, a Friday, set out for here. I occupied a special compartment in the train, and where ever I had to change I found at the station bearers who were ready to carry me for a few coppers. You have nice quarters here," she went on as she glanced around the room. "But where on earth did you get the money for them, my good sir? I thought that everything of yours had been mortgaged? This Frenchman alone must be your creditor for a good deal. Oh, I know all about it, all about it." "I-I am surprised at you, my dearest mother," said the General in some confusion. "I-I am greatly surprised. But I do not need any extraneous control of my finances. Moreover, my expenses do not exceed my income, and we" "They do not exceed it? Fie! Why, you are robbing your children of their last kopeck you, their guardian!" "After this," said the General, completely taken aback, "after what you have just said, I do not know whether" "You do not know _what?_ By heavens, are you _never_ going to drop that roulette of yours? Are you going to whistle all your property away?" This made such an impression upon the General that he almost choked with fury. "Roulette, indeed? _I_ play roulette? Really, in view of my position Recollect what you are saying, my dearest mother. You must still be unwell." "Rubbish, rubbish!" she retorted. "The truth is that you _cannot_ be got away from that roulette. You are simply telling lies. This very day I mean to go and see for myself what roulette is like. Prascovia, tell me what there is to be seen here; and do you, Alexis Ivanovitch, show me everything; and do you, Potapitch, make me a list of excursions. What _is_ there to be seen?" again she inquired of Polina. "There is a ruined castle, and the Shlangenberg." "The Shlangenberg? What is it? A forest?" "No, a mountain on the summit of which there is a place fenced off. From it you can get a most beautiful view." "Could a chair be carried up that mountain of yours?" "Doubtless we could find bearers for the purpose," I interposed. At this moment Theodosia, the nursemaid, approached the old lady with the General s children. "No, I _don t_ want to see them," said the Grandmother. "I hate kissing children, for their noses are always wet. How are you getting on, Theodosia?" "I am very well, thank you, Madame," replied the nursemaid. "And how is your ladyship? We have been feeling so anxious about you!" "Yes, I know, you simple soul But who are those other guests?" the old lady continued, turning again to Polina. "For instance, who is that old rascal in the spectacles?" "Prince Nilski, Grandmamma," whispered Polina. "Oh, a Russian? Why, I had no idea that he could understand me! Surely he did not hear what I said? As for Mr. Astley, I have seen him already, and I see that he is here again. How do you do?" she added to the gentleman in question. Mr. Astley bowed in silence. "Have you _nothing_ to say to me?" the old lady went on. "Say something, for goodness sake! Translate to him, Polina." Polina did so. "I have only to
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"Is the daughter married?" asked the old lady, without the least semblance of ceremony. "No," I replied as respectfully as possible, but under my breath. "Is she good company?" I failed to understand the question. "I mean, is she or is she not a bore? Can she speak Russian? When this De Griers was in Moscow he soon learnt to make himself understood." I explained to the old lady that Mlle. Blanche had never visited Russia. "Bonjour, then," said Madame, with sudden brusquerie. "Bonjour, madame," replied Mlle. Blanche with an elegant, ceremonious bow as, under cover of an unwonted modesty, she endeavoured to express, both in face and figure, her extreme surprise at such strange behaviour on the part of the Grandmother. "How the woman sticks out her eyes at me! How she mows and minces!" was the Grandmother s comment. Then she turned suddenly to the General, and continued: "I have taken up my abode here, so am going to be your next-door neighbour. Are you glad to hear that, or are you not?" "My dear mother, believe me when I say that I am sincerely delighted," returned the General, who had now, to a certain extent, recovered his senses; and inasmuch as, when occasion arose, he could speak with fluency, gravity, and a certain effect, he set himself to be expansive in his remarks, and went on: "We have been so dismayed and upset by the news of your indisposition! We had received such hopeless telegrams about you! Then suddenly" "Fibs, fibs!" interrupted the Grandmother. "How on earth, too, did you come to decide upon the journey?" continued the General, with raised voice as he hurried to overlook the old lady s last remark.<|quote|>"Surely, at your age, and in your present state of health, the thing is so unexpected that our surprise is at least intelligible. However, I am glad to see you (as indeed, are we all"</|quote|>he said this with a dignified, yet conciliatory, smile), "and will use my best endeavours to render your stay here as pleasant as possible." "Enough! All this is empty chatter. You are talking the usual nonsense. I shall know quite well how to spend my time. How did I come to undertake the journey, you ask? Well, is there anything so very surprising about it? It was done quite simply. What is every one going into ecstasies about? How do you do, Prascovia? What are _you_ doing here?" "And how are _you_, Grandmother?" replied Polina, as she approached the old lady. "Were you long on the journey?" "The most sensible question that I have yet been asked! Well, you shall hear for yourself how it all happened. I lay and lay, and was doctored and doctored, until at last I drove the physicians from me, and called in an apothecary from Nicolai who had cured an old woman of a malady similar to my own cured her merely with a little hayseed. Well, he did me a great deal of good, for on the third day I broke into a sweat, and was able to leave my bed. Then my German doctors held another consultation, put on their spectacles, and told me that if I would go abroad, and take a course of the waters, the indisposition would finally pass away. Why should it not? I thought to myself. So I had got things ready, and on the following day, a Friday, set out for here. I occupied a special compartment in the train, and where ever I had to change I found at the station bearers who were ready to carry me for a few coppers. You have nice quarters here," she went on
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The Gambler
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"No."
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Jake Barnes
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I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's
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be living with any one. I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's
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He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess.
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bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in
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see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike."
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"Is an Englishwoman here?" She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding. "Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady." "Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you." "She wishes to see me." "The chica will ask her." "It is very hot." "It is very hot in the summer in Madrid." "And how cold in winter." "Yes, it is very cold in winter." Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana? Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. "Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." "Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her
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"Just as you wish," he said. "I will have it put on the bill." "Do that." Well, that meant San Sebastian all shot to hell. I suppose, vaguely, I had expected something of the sort. I saw the concierge standing in the doorway. "Bring me a telegram form, please." He brought it and I took out my fountain-pen and printed: LADY ASHLEY HOTEL MONTANA MADRID ARRIVING SUD EXPRESS TOMORROW LOVE JAKE. That seemed to handle it. That was it. Send a girl off with one man. Introduce her to another to go off with him. Now go and bring her back. And sign the wire with love. That was it all right. I went in to lunch. I did not sleep much that night on the Sud Express. In the morning I had breakfast in the dining-car and watched the rock and pine country between Avila and Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray and long and cold in the sun, and did not give a damn about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a compact white sky-line on the top of a little cliff away off across the sun-hardened country. The Norte station in Madrid is the end of the line. All trains finish there. They don't go on anywhere. Outside were cabs and taxis and a line of hotel runners. It was like a country town. I took a taxi and we climbed up through the gardens, by the empty palace and the unfinished church on the edge of the cliff, and on up until we were in the high, hot, modern town. The taxi coasted down a smooth street to the Puerta del Sol, and then through the traffic and out into the Carrera San Jeronimo. All the shops had their awnings down against the heat. The windows on the sunny side of the street were shuttered. The taxi stopped at the curb. I saw the sign HOTEL MONTANA on the second floor. The taxi-driver carried the bags in and left them by the elevator. I could not make the elevator work, so I walked up. On the second floor up was a cut brass sign: HOTEL MONTANA. I rang and no one came to the door. I rang again and a maid with a sullen face opened the door. "Is Lady Ashley here?" I asked. She looked at me dully. "Is an Englishwoman here?" She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding. "Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady." "Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you." "She wishes to see me." "The chica will ask her." "It is very hot." "It is very hot in the summer in Madrid." "And how cold in winter." "Yes, it is very cold in winter." Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana? Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. "Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." "Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?" We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid. "I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman. "Right you are, sir. There you are." "Thanks." "I should have asked, you know." The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip. "It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?" "They're all nice bars." "You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that." "Anything you want me to think about it?" "Don't be an ass. _Would_ you buy a lady a drink?" "We'll have two more Martinis." "As they were before, sir?" "They were very good." Brett smiled at him. "Thank you, ma'am." "Well, bung-o," Brett said. "Bung-o!" "You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting." "He's got plenty of
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door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding. "Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady." "Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you." "She wishes to see me." "The chica will ask her." "It is very hot." "It is very hot in the summer in Madrid." "And how cold in winter." "Yes, it is very cold in winter." Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana? Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."<|quote|>"No."</|quote|>"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright." "What happened?" "Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. "Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." "Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me
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The Sun Also Rises
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"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"
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Josiah Christmas
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lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some
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'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give
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straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you
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escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't
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wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss
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"Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?" continued the constable. "Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore
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two up and down the office. Then he stopped before Jem. "Go round to Smithers the constable. You know: the man who came when the rum was broached." "Yes, sir, I know." "Ask Smithers to bring Michael Bannock round here. I must clear this matter up." "Yes, sir," said Jem; and he hurried out, while Don drew a long breath. "Uncle does not suspect me," he said to himself. "The scoundrel! He must have taken advantage of your back being turned to come in here. You did not notice anything, Lindon?" "No, uncle, and I hardly think he could have been left alone." "But the money is missing; some of it was dropped; this man is always penniless; he has not drawn his wages, and yet he is half tipsy and treating his companions. I hope I am not suspecting him wrongfully, but it looks bad, Lindon, it looks bad." The old merchant sat down and began to write. So did Don, who felt better now, and the time glided on till there were the sounds of feet heard in the yard, and directly after Mike, looking very red-eyed and flushed, entered the office, half pushed in by Jem Wimble and a hard-faced ugly man, who had a peculiar chip out of, or dent in, his nose. "Morn', master," said Mike, boisterously. "Couldn't yer get on without yer best man i' th' yard?" "Silence, sir!" cried Uncle Josiah, turning round, and glaring magisterially at the culprit. "Take yer hat off, can't yer?" cried Jem, knocking it off for him, and then picking it up and handing it. "Give man time, Jem Wimble," said Mike, with a grimace. "Want to pay me what you owes me, master?" "Hold your tongue, sir! And listen. Constable, a sum of money has been abstracted from my desk, and this man, who I believe was penniless two days ago, is now staying away from his work treating his friends." "Steady, master; on'y having a glass." "He was paying for ale with a guinea when I fetched him out, sir," said the constable. "Now, Mike, you're wanted for another ugly job, so you may as well clear yourself of this if you can." "What yer mean with your ugly job?" said the man, laughing. "You'll know soon enough; you and four more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?" continued the constable. "Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you
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it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale."<|quote|>"You own, then, that you had my money, sir?"</|quote|>cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to
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Don Lavington
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"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."
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Don Lavington
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know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with
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it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and
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Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they
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one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your
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Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind
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but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here,
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you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's
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the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me."<|quote|>"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."</|quote|>Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they
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Don Lavington
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whispered Jem.
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No speaker
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out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal.
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upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be
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expected the enemy would first come. Don joined them, eager to see how matters were going, and hopeful still, in spite of Tomati's words, that matters would not assume so serious an aspect; but just then a hand was laid upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be real fighting on. One of those poor fellows who came running in, and stood up as if nothing was wrong, is dead." "Dead?" "Yes, my lad. Spear went right through his chest. Hark at 'em!" There was a low wailing
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chance. If you have to run for it, keep along the east coast for about a hundred miles; there's white men settled down yonder. Good-bye." Tomati shook hands heartily, and went off to his righting men, who were excitedly watching the level below the _pah_, to which part it was expected the enemy would first come. Don joined them, eager to see how matters were going, and hopeful still, in spite of Tomati's words, that matters would not assume so serious an aspect; but just then a hand was laid upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be real fighting on. One of those poor fellows who came running in, and stood up as if nothing was wrong, is dead." "Dead?" "Yes, my lad. Spear went right through his chest. Hark at 'em!" There was a low wailing noise from the corner of the _pah_, where the two men were sheltered, and Don felt a chill of horror run through him. "Then it is going to be quite a savage battle, Jem?" "'Fraid so, my lad--no, I don't mean 'fraid--think so. Now, look here, Mas' Don, it won't
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we shall soon beat them off. You two keep under shelter, and if things go against us, you both get away, and make for the mountain. Go right into that cave, and wait till I join you." "But there will not be much fighting, will there--I mean real fighting?" said Jem. "I don't know what you mean by real fighting, squire; but I suppose we shall keep on till half of us on both sides are killed and wounded." "So bad as that?" "P'r'aps worse," said the man grimly. "Here, shake hands young un, in case we don't have another chance. If you have to run for it, keep along the east coast for about a hundred miles; there's white men settled down yonder. Good-bye." Tomati shook hands heartily, and went off to his righting men, who were excitedly watching the level below the _pah_, to which part it was expected the enemy would first come. Don joined them, eager to see how matters were going, and hopeful still, in spite of Tomati's words, that matters would not assume so serious an aspect; but just then a hand was laid upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be real fighting on. One of those poor fellows who came running in, and stood up as if nothing was wrong, is dead." "Dead?" "Yes, my lad. Spear went right through his chest. Hark at 'em!" There was a low wailing noise from the corner of the _pah_, where the two men were sheltered, and Don felt a chill of horror run through him. "Then it is going to be quite a savage battle, Jem?" "'Fraid so, my lad--no, I don't mean 'fraid--think so. Now, look here, Mas' Don, it won't be long first, so you'd better go and lie down behind them high palings, where you'll be safe." "And what are you going to do?" "Stop here and see what there is to see." "But you may be hurt." "Well, Mas' Don," said Jem bitterly; "it don't much matter if I am. Run along, my lad." "I'm going to stop with you, Jem." "And suppose you're hurt; what am I to say to your mother? Why, she'd never forgive me." "Nor me either, Jem, if I were to go and hide, while you stood out here." "But it's going to
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short and faced about as two of the enemy, who were in chase, dashed at them, spear in hand. Then, to Jem's astonishment, a sharp passage of arms occurred; the spears clashed together, there was a wonderful display of thrusting and parrying, and the two enemies fell back, and the scouts continued their retreat to the shelter of the fort. "What do you think of that, Jem?" said Don excitedly. "That was real fighting." "Real?" cried Jem; "it was wonderful!" and he spoke huskily. "Why, both those chaps was wounded, and these here's got it, too." The two scouts were both gashed about the arms by their enemies' spears, but they came bravely in, without making any display, and were received by cheers, Tomati going up to each in turn, and gripping his hand. Just then the Englishman caught sight of his compatriots, and came across to them quickly. "Hullo!" he said, with a grim smile, "cleared for action, and guns run out?" "Yes, we're ready," said Jem. "Going to fight on our side?" "Well, I don't know," said Jem, in a dubious kind of way. "Fighting arn't much in my line." "Not in yours neither, youngster. There, I daresay we shall soon beat them off. You two keep under shelter, and if things go against us, you both get away, and make for the mountain. Go right into that cave, and wait till I join you." "But there will not be much fighting, will there--I mean real fighting?" said Jem. "I don't know what you mean by real fighting, squire; but I suppose we shall keep on till half of us on both sides are killed and wounded." "So bad as that?" "P'r'aps worse," said the man grimly. "Here, shake hands young un, in case we don't have another chance. If you have to run for it, keep along the east coast for about a hundred miles; there's white men settled down yonder. Good-bye." Tomati shook hands heartily, and went off to his righting men, who were excitedly watching the level below the _pah_, to which part it was expected the enemy would first come. Don joined them, eager to see how matters were going, and hopeful still, in spite of Tomati's words, that matters would not assume so serious an aspect; but just then a hand was laid upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be real fighting on. One of those poor fellows who came running in, and stood up as if nothing was wrong, is dead." "Dead?" "Yes, my lad. Spear went right through his chest. Hark at 'em!" There was a low wailing noise from the corner of the _pah_, where the two men were sheltered, and Don felt a chill of horror run through him. "Then it is going to be quite a savage battle, Jem?" "'Fraid so, my lad--no, I don't mean 'fraid--think so. Now, look here, Mas' Don, it won't be long first, so you'd better go and lie down behind them high palings, where you'll be safe." "And what are you going to do?" "Stop here and see what there is to see." "But you may be hurt." "Well, Mas' Don," said Jem bitterly; "it don't much matter if I am. Run along, my lad." "I'm going to stop with you, Jem." "And suppose you're hurt; what am I to say to your mother? Why, she'd never forgive me." "Nor me either, Jem, if I were to go and hide, while you stood out here." "But it's going to be real dangerous, Mas' Don." "It will be just as dangerous for you, Jem. What should I say to your wife if you were hurt?" "Don't know, Mas' Don," said Jem sadly. "I don't think she'd mind a deal." "You don't mean it, Jem!" cried Don sharply. "Now, are you coming into shelter?" "No," said Jem, with a peculiarly hard, stern look in his face. "I'm going to fight." "Then I shall stay too, Jem." "Won't you feel frightened, Mas' Don?" "Yes, I suppose so. It seems very horrible." "Yes, so it is, but it's them others as makes it horrible. I'm going to give one on 'em something for spearing that poor chap. Look out, Mas' Don; here they come!" There was a fierce shout of defiance as the scouts came running in now as hard as they could, followed by a body of about two hundred naked warriors, whose bronzed bodies glistened in the sunshine. They came on in a regular body, running swiftly, and not keeping step, but with wonderful regularity, till they were about fifty yards from the _pah_, when, after opening out into a solid oblong mass to show a broader front, they stopped suddenly
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say." "Ah! My pakeha!" cried a voice just behind them; and they turned sharply, to find themselves face to face with Ngati, who patted Don on the shoulder, and then pointed to his cutlass and pistol. "Hah!" he ejaculated, with a deep breath; and then, without warning, snatched Don's spear from his hand, threw himself into a series of wild attitudes, and went through the action of one engaged in an encounter with an enemy, stabbing, parrying, dodging, and darting here and there in a way that suggested instant immolation for the unfortunate he encountered. "Look at him, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Look at him pretending. That's the way they fight. By-an'-by, you'll see lots o' that, but you mark my words, none on 'em won't go nigh enough to hurt one another." Ngati ceased as suddenly as he had begun, returned the spear to Don, and seemed to intimate that he should go through the same performance. "You wait a bit, old chap!" cried Jem. "We don't fight that way." "Hah!" ejaculated Ngati, and he ran across to a portion of the _pah_ where several of his warriors were busily binding some of the posts more securely. "It do make me laugh," said Jem; "but I s'pose all that bouncing helps 'em. Poor things. Mas' Don, you and I ought to be werry thankful as we was born in Bristol, and that Bristol's in old England. Say, shall you give any one a chop if it does come to a fight?" Don shook his head. Jem laughed. "If it warn't for wasting the powder, I tell you what we'd do. Get up a-top yonder where we could lean over the palings, wait till the other chaps comes up, and then shoot over their heads with the pistols. That'd make some of 'em run." There was another shout here, for two of the scouts came running in, and every man seized his spear, and darted to the spot he was expected to defend. "Why, Mas' Don, how they can run! Look at 'em. An Englishman wouldn't run like that from a dozen men. Here, let's chuck these spears away. We sha'n't want 'em. An Englishman as has got fists don't want no spears. Look! Look!" The two scouts had come running in very swiftly till they were about a hundred yards from the gateway of the _pah_, when they stopped short and faced about as two of the enemy, who were in chase, dashed at them, spear in hand. Then, to Jem's astonishment, a sharp passage of arms occurred; the spears clashed together, there was a wonderful display of thrusting and parrying, and the two enemies fell back, and the scouts continued their retreat to the shelter of the fort. "What do you think of that, Jem?" said Don excitedly. "That was real fighting." "Real?" cried Jem; "it was wonderful!" and he spoke huskily. "Why, both those chaps was wounded, and these here's got it, too." The two scouts were both gashed about the arms by their enemies' spears, but they came bravely in, without making any display, and were received by cheers, Tomati going up to each in turn, and gripping his hand. Just then the Englishman caught sight of his compatriots, and came across to them quickly. "Hullo!" he said, with a grim smile, "cleared for action, and guns run out?" "Yes, we're ready," said Jem. "Going to fight on our side?" "Well, I don't know," said Jem, in a dubious kind of way. "Fighting arn't much in my line." "Not in yours neither, youngster. There, I daresay we shall soon beat them off. You two keep under shelter, and if things go against us, you both get away, and make for the mountain. Go right into that cave, and wait till I join you." "But there will not be much fighting, will there--I mean real fighting?" said Jem. "I don't know what you mean by real fighting, squire; but I suppose we shall keep on till half of us on both sides are killed and wounded." "So bad as that?" "P'r'aps worse," said the man grimly. "Here, shake hands young un, in case we don't have another chance. If you have to run for it, keep along the east coast for about a hundred miles; there's white men settled down yonder. Good-bye." Tomati shook hands heartily, and went off to his righting men, who were excitedly watching the level below the _pah_, to which part it was expected the enemy would first come. Don joined them, eager to see how matters were going, and hopeful still, in spite of Tomati's words, that matters would not assume so serious an aspect; but just then a hand was laid upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be real fighting on. One of those poor fellows who came running in, and stood up as if nothing was wrong, is dead." "Dead?" "Yes, my lad. Spear went right through his chest. Hark at 'em!" There was a low wailing noise from the corner of the _pah_, where the two men were sheltered, and Don felt a chill of horror run through him. "Then it is going to be quite a savage battle, Jem?" "'Fraid so, my lad--no, I don't mean 'fraid--think so. Now, look here, Mas' Don, it won't be long first, so you'd better go and lie down behind them high palings, where you'll be safe." "And what are you going to do?" "Stop here and see what there is to see." "But you may be hurt." "Well, Mas' Don," said Jem bitterly; "it don't much matter if I am. Run along, my lad." "I'm going to stop with you, Jem." "And suppose you're hurt; what am I to say to your mother? Why, she'd never forgive me." "Nor me either, Jem, if I were to go and hide, while you stood out here." "But it's going to be real dangerous, Mas' Don." "It will be just as dangerous for you, Jem. What should I say to your wife if you were hurt?" "Don't know, Mas' Don," said Jem sadly. "I don't think she'd mind a deal." "You don't mean it, Jem!" cried Don sharply. "Now, are you coming into shelter?" "No," said Jem, with a peculiarly hard, stern look in his face. "I'm going to fight." "Then I shall stay too, Jem." "Won't you feel frightened, Mas' Don?" "Yes, I suppose so. It seems very horrible." "Yes, so it is, but it's them others as makes it horrible. I'm going to give one on 'em something for spearing that poor chap. Look out, Mas' Don; here they come!" There was a fierce shout of defiance as the scouts came running in now as hard as they could, followed by a body of about two hundred naked warriors, whose bronzed bodies glistened in the sunshine. They came on in a regular body, running swiftly, and not keeping step, but with wonderful regularity, till they were about fifty yards from the _pah_, when, after opening out into a solid oblong mass to show a broader front, they stopped suddenly as one man, dropped into a half-kneeling position, and remained perfectly motionless, every savage with his head bent round, as if he were looking over his left shoulder, and then turning his eyes to the ground, and holding his weapon diagonally across his body. The whole business was as correctly gone through as if it was a manoeuvre of some well-drilled European regiment, and then there was an utter silence for a few minutes. Not a sound arose from either side; enemies and friends resembled statues, and it was as if the earth had some great attraction for them, for every eye looked down instead of at a foe. Don's heart beat heavily. As the band of heavy warriors came on, the air seemed to throb, and the earth resound. It was exciting enough then; but this was, in its utter stillness, horribly intense, and with breathless interest the two adventurers scanned the fierce-looking band. All at once Jem placed his lips close to Don's ear, and whispered,-- "Dunno what to say to it all, Mas' Don. P'r'aps it's flam after all." "No, Jem; they look too fierce," whispered back Don. "Ay, my lad, that's it; they look so fierce. If they didn't look so precious ugly, I should believe in 'em a bit more. Looks to me as if they were going to pretend to bite, and then run off." A sudden yell rose from the attacking party just then, and three of the enemy rushed forward to the front, armed with short-handled stone tomahawks. They seemed to be chiefs, and were men of great height and bulk, but none the less active; and as they advanced, a low murmur of dismay was started by such of the women as could command a view of what was going on outside. This seemed to be communicated to all the rest, women and children taking up the murmur, which rose to a piteous wail. This started the pigs and dogs which had been driven into the protection of the _pah_, and the discord was terrible. But meanwhile, partly to encourage their followers, partly to dismay those they had come to attack, the three leaders rushed wildly to and fro before the opening to the fort, brandishing their stone axes, grimacing horribly, putting out their tongues, and turning up their eyes, till only the whites were visible. "It's that 'ere which makes
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in, and every man seized his spear, and darted to the spot he was expected to defend. "Why, Mas' Don, how they can run! Look at 'em. An Englishman wouldn't run like that from a dozen men. Here, let's chuck these spears away. We sha'n't want 'em. An Englishman as has got fists don't want no spears. Look! Look!" The two scouts had come running in very swiftly till they were about a hundred yards from the gateway of the _pah_, when they stopped short and faced about as two of the enemy, who were in chase, dashed at them, spear in hand. Then, to Jem's astonishment, a sharp passage of arms occurred; the spears clashed together, there was a wonderful display of thrusting and parrying, and the two enemies fell back, and the scouts continued their retreat to the shelter of the fort. "What do you think of that, Jem?" said Don excitedly. "That was real fighting." "Real?" cried Jem; "it was wonderful!" and he spoke huskily. "Why, both those chaps was wounded, and these here's got it, too." The two scouts were both gashed about the arms by their enemies' spears, but they came bravely in, without making any display, and were received by cheers, Tomati going up to each in turn, and gripping his hand. Just then the Englishman caught sight of his compatriots, and came across to them quickly. "Hullo!" he said, with a grim smile, "cleared for action, and guns run out?" "Yes, we're ready," said Jem. "Going to fight on our side?" "Well, I don't know," said Jem, in a dubious kind of way. "Fighting arn't much in my line." "Not in yours neither, youngster. There, I daresay we shall soon beat them off. You two keep under shelter, and if things go against us, you both get away, and make for the mountain. Go right into that cave, and wait till I join you." "But there will not be much fighting, will there--I mean real fighting?" said Jem. "I don't know what you mean by real fighting, squire; but I suppose we shall keep on till half of us on both sides are killed and wounded." "So bad as that?" "P'r'aps worse," said the man grimly. "Here, shake hands young un, in case we don't have another chance. If you have to run for it, keep along the east coast for about a hundred miles; there's white men settled down yonder. Good-bye." Tomati shook hands heartily, and went off to his righting men, who were excitedly watching the level below the _pah_, to which part it was expected the enemy would first come. Don joined them, eager to see how matters were going, and hopeful still, in spite of Tomati's words, that matters would not assume so serious an aspect; but just then a hand was laid upon his arm. "I was out of it, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"They do bounce a deal. But there's going to be real fighting on. One of those poor fellows who came running in, and stood up as if nothing was wrong, is dead." "Dead?" "Yes, my lad. Spear went right through his chest. Hark at 'em!" There was a low wailing noise from the corner of the _pah_, where the two men were sheltered, and Don felt a chill of horror run through him. "Then it is going to be quite a savage battle, Jem?" "'Fraid so, my lad--no, I don't mean 'fraid--think so. Now, look here, Mas' Don, it won't be long first, so you'd better go and lie down behind them high palings, where you'll be safe." "And what are you going to do?" "Stop here and see what there is to see." "But you may be hurt." "Well, Mas' Don," said Jem bitterly; "it don't much matter if I am. Run along, my lad." "I'm going to stop with you, Jem." "And suppose you're hurt; what am I to say to your mother? Why, she'd never forgive me." "Nor me either, Jem, if I were to go and hide, while you stood out here." "But it's going to be real dangerous, Mas' Don." "It will be just as dangerous for you, Jem. What should I say to your wife if you were hurt?" "Don't know, Mas' Don," said Jem sadly. "I don't think she'd mind a deal." "You don't mean it, Jem!" cried Don sharply. "Now, are you coming into shelter?" "No," said Jem, with a peculiarly hard, stern look in his face. "I'm going to fight." "Then I shall stay too, Jem." "Won't you feel frightened, Mas' Don?" "Yes, I suppose so. It seems very horrible." "Yes, so it is, but it's them others as makes it horrible. I'm going to give one on 'em something for spearing that poor chap. Look out, Mas' Don; here they come!" There was a fierce shout of defiance as the scouts came running in now as hard as they could, followed by a body of about two hundred naked warriors, whose bronzed bodies glistened in the sunshine. They came on in a regular body, running swiftly, and not keeping step, but with wonderful regularity, till they
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Don Lavington
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"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."
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Mrs. Adeline Archer
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I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to
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transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it
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(or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which
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Granny's last reception." It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions: conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances; but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came
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It would be the same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity; not all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful speculations. The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend. "Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings--" she began; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now; and she was invited to Granny's last reception." It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions: conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances; but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was most in the tone of her environment. His mother, with less than her usual sensitiveness to atmosphere, still insisted: "I've always thought that people like the Countess Olenska, who have lived in aristocratic societies, ought to help us to keep up our social distinctions, instead of ignoring them." May's blush remained permanently vivid: it seemed to have a significance beyond that implied by the recognition of Madame Olenska's social bad faith. "I've no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners," said Miss Jackson tartly. "I don't think Ellen cares for society; but nobody knows exactly
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like ... like ..." Miss Jackson glanced around the table, caught Janey's bulging gaze, and took refuge in an unintelligible murmur. "Like her rivals," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson, with the air of producing an epigram. "Oh,--" the ladies murmured; and Mrs. Archer added, partly to distract her daughter's attention from forbidden topics: "Poor Regina! Her Thanksgiving hasn't been a very cheerful one, I'm afraid. Have you heard the rumours about Beaufort's speculations, Sillerton?" Mr. Jackson nodded carelessly. Every one had heard the rumours in question, and he scorned to confirm a tale that was already common property. A gloomy silence fell upon the party. No one really liked Beaufort, and it was not wholly unpleasant to think the worst of his private life; but the idea of his having brought financial dishonour on his wife's family was too shocking to be enjoyed even by his enemies. Archer's New York tolerated hypocrisy in private relations; but in business matters it exacted a limpid and impeccable honesty. It was a long time since any well-known banker had failed discreditably; but every one remembered the social extinction visited on the heads of the firm when the last event of the kind had happened. It would be the same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity; not all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful speculations. The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend. "Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings--" she began; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now; and she was invited to Granny's last reception." It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions: conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances; but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was most in the tone of her environment. His mother, with less than her usual sensitiveness to atmosphere, still insisted: "I've always thought that people like the Countess Olenska, who have lived in aristocratic societies, ought to help us to keep up our social distinctions, instead of ignoring them." May's blush remained permanently vivid: it seemed to have a significance beyond that implied by the recognition of Madame Olenska's social bad faith. "I've no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners," said Miss Jackson tartly. "I don't think Ellen cares for society; but nobody knows exactly what she does care for," May continued, as if she had been groping for something noncommittal. "Ah, well--" Mrs. Archer sighed again. Everybody knew that the Countess Olenska was no longer in the good graces of her family. Even her devoted champion, old Mrs. Manson Mingott, had been unable to defend her refusal to return to her husband. The Mingotts had not proclaimed their disapproval aloud: their sense of solidarity was too strong. They had simply, as Mrs. Welland said, "let poor Ellen find her own level"--and that, mortifyingly and incomprehensibly, was in the dim depths where the Blenkers prevailed, and "people who wrote" celebrated their untidy rites. It was incredible, but it was a fact, that Ellen, in spite of all her opportunities and her privileges, had become simply "Bohemian." The fact enforced the contention that she had made a fatal mistake in not returning to Count Olenski. After all, a young woman's place was under her husband's roof, especially when she had left it in circumstances that ... well ... if one had cared to look into them ... "Madame Olenska is a great favourite with the gentlemen," said Miss Sophy, with her air of wishing to put
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house. "It was odd, though, to preach about it on Thanksgiving," Miss Jackson opined; and her hostess drily rejoined: "Oh, he means us to give thanks for what's left." Archer had been wont to smile at these annual vaticinations of his mother's; but this year even he was obliged to acknowledge, as he listened to an enumeration of the changes, that the "trend" was visible. "The extravagance in dress--" Miss Jackson began. "Sillerton took me to the first night of the Opera, and I can only tell you that Jane Merry's dress was the only one I recognised from last year; and even that had had the front panel changed. Yet I know she got it out from Worth only two years ago, because my seamstress always goes in to make over her Paris dresses before she wears them." "Ah, Jane Merry is one of US," said Mrs. Archer sighing, as if it were not such an enviable thing to be in an age when ladies were beginning to flaunt abroad their Paris dresses as soon as they were out of the Custom House, instead of letting them mellow under lock and key, in the manner of Mrs. Archer's contemporaries. "Yes; she's one of the few. In my youth," Miss Jackson rejoined, "it was considered vulgar to dress in the newest fashions; and Amy Sillerton has always told me that in Boston the rule was to put away one's Paris dresses for two years. Old Mrs. Baxter Pennilow, who did everything handsomely, used to import twelve a year, two velvet, two satin, two silk, and the other six of poplin and the finest cashmere. It was a standing order, and as she was ill for two years before she died they found forty-eight Worth dresses that had never been taken out of tissue paper; and when the girls left off their mourning they were able to wear the first lot at the Symphony concerts without looking in advance of the fashion." "Ah, well, Boston is more conservative than New York; but I always think it's a safe rule for a lady to lay aside her French dresses for one season," Mrs. Archer conceded. "It was Beaufort who started the new fashion by making his wife clap her new clothes on her back as soon as they arrived: I must say at times it takes all Regina's distinction not to look like ... like ..." Miss Jackson glanced around the table, caught Janey's bulging gaze, and took refuge in an unintelligible murmur. "Like her rivals," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson, with the air of producing an epigram. "Oh,--" the ladies murmured; and Mrs. Archer added, partly to distract her daughter's attention from forbidden topics: "Poor Regina! Her Thanksgiving hasn't been a very cheerful one, I'm afraid. Have you heard the rumours about Beaufort's speculations, Sillerton?" Mr. Jackson nodded carelessly. Every one had heard the rumours in question, and he scorned to confirm a tale that was already common property. A gloomy silence fell upon the party. No one really liked Beaufort, and it was not wholly unpleasant to think the worst of his private life; but the idea of his having brought financial dishonour on his wife's family was too shocking to be enjoyed even by his enemies. Archer's New York tolerated hypocrisy in private relations; but in business matters it exacted a limpid and impeccable honesty. It was a long time since any well-known banker had failed discreditably; but every one remembered the social extinction visited on the heads of the firm when the last event of the kind had happened. It would be the same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity; not all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful speculations. The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend. "Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings--" she began; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now; and she was invited to Granny's last reception." It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions: conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances; but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was most in the tone of her environment. His mother, with less than her usual sensitiveness to atmosphere, still insisted: "I've always thought that people like the Countess Olenska, who have lived in aristocratic societies, ought to help us to keep up our social distinctions, instead of ignoring them." May's blush remained permanently vivid: it seemed to have a significance beyond that implied by the recognition of Madame Olenska's social bad faith. "I've no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners," said Miss Jackson tartly. "I don't think Ellen cares for society; but nobody knows exactly what she does care for," May continued, as if she had been groping for something noncommittal. "Ah, well--" Mrs. Archer sighed again. Everybody knew that the Countess Olenska was no longer in the good graces of her family. Even her devoted champion, old Mrs. Manson Mingott, had been unable to defend her refusal to return to her husband. The Mingotts had not proclaimed their disapproval aloud: their sense of solidarity was too strong. They had simply, as Mrs. Welland said, "let poor Ellen find her own level"--and that, mortifyingly and incomprehensibly, was in the dim depths where the Blenkers prevailed, and "people who wrote" celebrated their untidy rites. It was incredible, but it was a fact, that Ellen, in spite of all her opportunities and her privileges, had become simply "Bohemian." The fact enforced the contention that she had made a fatal mistake in not returning to Count Olenski. After all, a young woman's place was under her husband's roof, especially when she had left it in circumstances that ... well ... if one had cared to look into them ... "Madame Olenska is a great favourite with the gentlemen," said Miss Sophy, with her air of wishing to put forth something conciliatory when she knew that she was planting a dart. "Ah, that's the danger that a young woman like Madame Olenska is always exposed to," Mrs. Archer mournfully agreed; and the ladies, on this conclusion, gathered up their trains to seek the carcel globes of the drawing-room, while Archer and Mr. Sillerton Jackson withdrew to the Gothic library. Once established before the grate, and consoling himself for the inadequacy of the dinner by the perfection of his cigar, Mr. Jackson became portentous and communicable. "If the Beaufort smash comes," he announced, "there are going to be disclosures." Archer raised his head quickly: he could never hear the name without the sharp vision of Beaufort's heavy figure, opulently furred and shod, advancing through the snow at Skuytercliff. "There's bound to be," Mr. Jackson continued, "the nastiest kind of a cleaning up. He hasn't spent all his money on Regina." "Oh, well--that's discounted, isn't it? My belief is he'll pull out yet," said the young man, wanting to change the subject. "Perhaps--perhaps. I know he was to see some of the influential people today. Of course," Mr. Jackson reluctantly conceded, "it's to be hoped they can tide him over--this time anyhow. I shouldn't like to think of poor Regina's spending the rest of her life in some shabby foreign watering-place for bankrupts." Archer said nothing. It seemed to him so natural--however tragic--that money ill-gotten should be cruelly expiated, that his mind, hardly lingering over Mrs. Beaufort's doom, wandered back to closer questions. What was the meaning of May's blush when the Countess Olenska had been mentioned? Four months had passed since the midsummer day that he and Madame Olenska had spent together; and since then he had not seen her. He knew that she had returned to Washington, to the little house which she and Medora Manson had taken there: he had written to her once--a few words, asking when they were to meet again--and she had even more briefly replied: "Not yet." Since then there had been no farther communication between them, and he had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his secret thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him, his judgments and his visions. Outside
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the last event of the kind had happened. It would be the same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity; not all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful speculations. The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend. "Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings--" she began; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now; and she was invited to Granny's last reception." It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions: conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed.<|quote|>"Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."</|quote|>A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances; but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was most in the tone of her environment. His mother, with less than her usual sensitiveness to atmosphere, still insisted: "I've always thought that people like the Countess Olenska, who have lived in aristocratic societies, ought to help us to keep up our social distinctions, instead of ignoring them." May's blush remained permanently vivid: it seemed to have a significance beyond that implied by the recognition of Madame Olenska's social bad faith. "I've no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners," said Miss Jackson tartly. "I don't think Ellen cares for society; but nobody knows exactly what she does care for," May continued, as if she had been groping for something noncommittal. "Ah, well--" Mrs. Archer sighed again. Everybody knew that the Countess Olenska was no longer in the good graces of her family. Even her devoted champion, old Mrs. Manson Mingott, had been unable to defend her refusal to return to her husband. The Mingotts had not proclaimed their disapproval aloud: their sense of solidarity was too strong. They
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The Age Of Innocence
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"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."
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Mr. Darcy
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answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must
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a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must have occasion to write in
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or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I
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Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister
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be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. CHAPTER X. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?" "They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to
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own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear. "I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill." Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not." Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. CHAPTER X. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?" "They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine." "It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." "And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?" "The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with
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has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were." "And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!" "I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love," said Darcy. "Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away." Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear. "I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill." Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not." Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. CHAPTER X. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?" "They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine." "It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." "And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?" "The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?" "Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies." "I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not go--and, at another word, might stay a month." "You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much more than he did himself." "I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could." "Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?" "Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for himself." "You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return
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of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear. "I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill." Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not." Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. CHAPTER X. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast."<|quote|>"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."</|quote|>"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?" "They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine." "It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the
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Pride And Prejudice
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"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."
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Princess
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a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising
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the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard
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"that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this
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her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come,
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said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but
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morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but idle phantasy. She then sent for the vizier's son, to know of him something of what the princess had told her; but he, thinking himself highly honoured to be allied to the sultan, and not willing to lose the princess, denied what had happened. "That is enough," answered the sultaness; "I ask no more. I see you are wiser than my daughter." The rejoicings lasted all that day in the palace, and the sultaness, who never left the princess, forgot nothing to divert her, and induce her to take part in the various diversions and shows; but she was so struck with the idea of what had happened to her in the night, that it was easy to see her thoughts were entirely taken up with it. Neither was the grand vizier's son in less tribulation, though his ambition made him disguise his feelings so well, that nobody doubted of his being a happy bridegroom. Aladdin, who was well acquainted with what passed in the palace, was resolved that the troublesome adventure of the night before should again disturb the unhappy pair, and therefore had recourse to his lamp, and when the genie appeared and offered his service, he said
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marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared. Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air: "Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself." The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but idle phantasy. She then sent for the vizier's son, to know of him something of what the princess had told her; but he, thinking himself highly honoured to be allied to the sultan, and not willing to lose the princess, denied what had happened. "That is enough," answered the sultaness; "I ask no more. I see you are wiser than my daughter." The rejoicings lasted all that day in the palace, and the sultaness, who never left the princess, forgot nothing to divert her, and induce her to take part in the various diversions and shows; but she was so struck with the idea of what had happened to her in the night, that it was easy to see her thoughts were entirely taken up with it. Neither was the grand vizier's son in less tribulation, though his ambition made him disguise his feelings so well, that nobody doubted of his being a happy bridegroom. Aladdin, who was well acquainted with what passed in the palace, was resolved that the troublesome adventure of the night before should again disturb the unhappy pair, and therefore had recourse to his lamp, and when the genie appeared and offered his service, he said to him: "Bring the grand vizier's son and the Princess Badroulboudour hither to-night, as thou didst yesterday." The genie obeyed as faithfully and exactly as the day before; the grand vizier's son passed the night as coldly and disagreeably, and the princess had the same alarm and mortification. The genie, according to orders, came the next morning, and returned the new-married couple again to the palace. The sultan, after the reception the princess had given him, was very anxious to know how she had passed the second night, and therefore went into her chamber as early as the morning before. After the same caresses he had given her the former morning, he bade her good-morrow. "Well, daughter," said he, "are you in a better humour than yesterday?" Still the princess was silent, and the sultan, perceiving her to be in greater confusion than before, doubted not that something very extraordinary was the cause; but provoked that his daughter should conceal it, he said to her in a rage, with his sabre in his hand: "Daughter, tell me what is the matter, or I will cut off your head immediately." The princess, more frightened at the tone of the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me." After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added: "If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing." The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling me this yesterday, since it concerns me as much as yourself. I did not marry you to make you miserable, but that you might enjoy all the happiness you might hope for from a husband, who to me seemed agreeable to you. Efface all these troublesome ideas from your memory; I will take care that you shall have no more such disagreeable experiences." As soon as the sultan had returned to
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eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said:<|quote|>"Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm."</|quote|>She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but idle phantasy. She then sent for the vizier's son, to know of him something of what the princess had told her; but he, thinking himself highly honoured to be allied to the sultan, and not willing to lose the
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Arabian Nights (4)
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said Jane:
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No speaker
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has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they
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endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His
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cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational
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know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly
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are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly replied, "Just as you please." "May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?" "Take whatever you like, and get away." Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs.
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marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone." "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship." "Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly replied, "Just as you please." "May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?" "Take whatever you like, and get away." Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. "My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried: "This is delightful indeed!--She will be married!--I shall see her again!--She will be married at sixteen!--My good, kind brother!--I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage every thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia!--How merry we shall be together when we meet!" Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief
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Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any thing more is determined on. Your's, &c." "EDW. GARDINER." "Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be possible that he will marry her?" "Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;" said her sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you." "And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth. "No; but it must be done soon." Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he wrote. "Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is, in such a case." "Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble yourself." "I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done." And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. "And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with." "Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little." "And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!" "Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever to pay him." "Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?" "I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am gone." "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship." "Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly replied, "Just as you please." "May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?" "Take whatever you like, and get away." Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. "My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried: "This is delightful indeed!--She will be married!--I shall see her again!--She will be married at sixteen!--My good, kind brother!--I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage every thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia!--How merry we shall be together when we meet!" Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under. "For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a great measure, to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money." "Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must have had all his money you know, and it is the first time we have ever had any thing from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy. In a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds. And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately." She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait, till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy, to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes too came into her head. "I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do any thing for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of punch, to make merry at her wedding." Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom. Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse,
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doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this." "No," said her father, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship." "Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?" Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!" "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?" "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"<|quote|>said Jane:</|quote|>"I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly replied, "Just as you please." "May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?" "Take whatever you like, and get away." Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know
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Pride And Prejudice
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said Mr. Sikes,
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No speaker
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till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be
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is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be taken care on. You must
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streets when he went out. "Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in. The Jew nodded assent. "If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow." Again the Jew nodded. The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and
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There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out. "Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in. The Jew nodded assent. "If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow." Again the Jew nodded. The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever. How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind,
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with a malicious grin. "You're blowed upon, Fagin." "And I'm afraid, you see," added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so, "I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear." The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall. There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out. "Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in. The Jew nodded assent. "If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow." Again the Jew nodded. The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever. How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh. "The very thing!" said the Jew. "Bet will go; won't you, my dear?" "Wheres?" inquired the young lady. "Only just up to the office, my dear," said the Jew coaxingly. It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to
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his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor. "And mind you don't poison it," said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table. This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman's merry heart. After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances. "I'm afraid," said the Jew, "that he may say something which will get us into trouble." "That's very likely," returned Sikes with a malicious grin. "You're blowed upon, Fagin." "And I'm afraid, you see," added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so, "I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear." The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall. There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out. "Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in. The Jew nodded assent. "If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow." Again the Jew nodded. The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever. How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh. "The very thing!" said the Jew. "Bet will go; won't you, my dear?" "Wheres?" inquired the young lady. "Only just up to the office, my dear," said the Jew coaxingly. It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be "blessed" if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal. The Jew's countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other female. "Nancy, my dear," said the Jew in a soothing manner, "what do _you_ say?" "That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin," replied Nancy. "What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner. "What I say, Bill," replied the lady collectedly. "Why, you're just the very person for it," reasoned Mr. Sikes: "nobody about here knows anything of you." "And as I don't want 'em to, neither," replied Nancy in the same composed manner, "it's rather more no than yes with me, Bill." "She'll go, Fagin," said Sikes. "No, she won't, Fagin," said Nancy. "Yes, she will, Fagin," said Sikes. And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in
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in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow. "Come in, d'ye hear?" growled this engaging ruffian. A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked into the room. "Why didn't you come in afore?" said the man. "You're getting too proud to own me afore company, are you? Lie down!" This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment. "What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?" said the man, seating himself deliberately. "I wonder they don't murder you! I would if I was them. If I'd been your 'prentice, I'd have done it long ago, and no, I couldn't have sold you afterwards, for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow glass bottles large enough." "Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes," said the Jew, trembling; "don't speak so loud!" "None of your mistering," replied the ruffian; "you always mean mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan't disgrace it when the time comes." "Well, well, then Bill Sikes," said the Jew, with abject humility. "You seem out of humour, Bill." "Perhaps I am," replied Sikes; "I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and" "Are you mad?" said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys. Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor. "And mind you don't poison it," said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table. This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman's merry heart. After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances. "I'm afraid," said the Jew, "that he may say something which will get us into trouble." "That's very likely," returned Sikes with a malicious grin. "You're blowed upon, Fagin." "And I'm afraid, you see," added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so, "I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear." The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall. There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out. "Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in. The Jew nodded assent. "If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow." Again the Jew nodded. The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever. How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh. "The very thing!" said the Jew. "Bet will go; won't you, my dear?" "Wheres?" inquired the young lady. "Only just up to the office, my dear," said the Jew coaxingly. It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be "blessed" if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal. The Jew's countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other female. "Nancy, my dear," said the Jew in a soothing manner, "what do _you_ say?" "That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin," replied Nancy. "What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner. "What I say, Bill," replied the lady collectedly. "Why, you're just the very person for it," reasoned Mr. Sikes: "nobody about here knows anything of you." "And as I don't want 'em to, neither," replied Nancy in the same composed manner, "it's rather more no than yes with me, Bill." "She'll go, Fagin," said Sikes. "No, she won't, Fagin," said Nancy. "Yes, she will, Fagin," said Sikes. And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances. Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet, both articles of dress being provided from the Jew's inexhaustible stock, Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand. "Stop a minute, my dear," said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. "Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear." "Give her a door-key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin," said Sikes; "it looks real and genivine like." "Yes, yes, my dear, so it does," said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady's right hand. "There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!" said the Jew, rubbing his hands. "Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!" exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. "What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!" Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared. "Ah, she's a clever girl, my dears," said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld. "She's a honour to her sex," said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist. "Here's her health, and wishing they was all like her!" While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards. Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There
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as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow glass bottles large enough." "Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes," said the Jew, trembling; "don't speak so loud!" "None of your mistering," replied the ruffian; "you always mean mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan't disgrace it when the time comes." "Well, well, then Bill Sikes," said the Jew, with abject humility. "You seem out of humour, Bill." "Perhaps I am," replied Sikes; "I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and" "Are you mad?" said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys. Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor. "And mind you don't poison it," said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table. This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman's merry heart. After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances. "I'm afraid," said the Jew, "that he may say something which will get us into trouble." "That's very likely," returned Sikes with a malicious grin. "You're blowed upon, Fagin." "And I'm afraid, you see," added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so, "I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear." The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall. There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out. "Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in. The Jew nodded assent. "If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,"<|quote|>said Mr. Sikes,</|quote|>"and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow." Again the Jew nodded. The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever. How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh. "The very thing!" said the Jew. "Bet will go; won't you, my dear?" "Wheres?" inquired the young lady. "Only just up to the office, my dear," said the Jew coaxingly. It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be "blessed" if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal. The Jew's countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other female. "Nancy, my dear," said the Jew in a soothing manner, "what do _you_ say?" "That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin," replied Nancy. "What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner. "What I say, Bill," replied the lady collectedly. "Why, you're just the very person for it," reasoned Mr. Sikes: "nobody about here knows anything of you." "And as I don't want 'em to, neither," replied Nancy in the same composed manner, "it's rather more no than yes with me, Bill." "She'll go, Fagin," said Sikes. "No, she won't, Fagin," said Nancy. "Yes, she will, Fagin," said Sikes. And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the neighborhood of
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Oliver Twist
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A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,
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No speaker
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together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should
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repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should be tired with only walking
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need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while." "My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm
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not too late. Go into the law." "Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness." "Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you." "You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while." "My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm." "Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification
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recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation." "Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness. "There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced Miss Price already." "I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too." "I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile; "I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law." "Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness." "Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you." "You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while." "My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm." "Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcely touch me," said he. "You do not make me of any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison." "I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile
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I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The _manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation." "Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness. "There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced Miss Price already." "I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too." "I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile; "I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law." "Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness." "Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you." "You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while." "My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm." "Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcely touch me," said he. "You do not make me of any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison." "I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?" "Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness. "Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path." "But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length." "Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass." "We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we
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a soldier, nor a sailor." "Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second son." "A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund, "but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for myself." "But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him." "Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?" "_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation, which means _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is nothing." "The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as the _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their influence. No one here can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear." "_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit." "_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large." "The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest." "Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The _manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation." "Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness. "There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced Miss Price already." "I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too." "I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile; "I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law." "Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness." "Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you." "You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while." "My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm." "Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcely touch me," said he. "You do not make me of any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison." "I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?" "Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness. "Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path." "But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length." "Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass." "We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?" "Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch." A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which they all sat down. "I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund, observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford, except riding." "How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen again." "_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me." "That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not know it." "I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment." After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. "I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view, without being able to see it so well." Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile." "It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_ with a glance." He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she would not compare. She would only smile and
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the result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation." "Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness. "There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced Miss Price already." "I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too." "I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile; "I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law." "Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness." "Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you." "You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."<|quote|>A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying,</|quote|>"I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while." "My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm." "Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcely touch me," said he. "You do not make me of any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison." "I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?" "Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness. "Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path." "But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length." "Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass." "We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?" "Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch." A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which they all sat down. "I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund, observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford, except riding." "How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen again." "_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me." "That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for
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Mansfield Park
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"How does it come about exactly?"
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Paul
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way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come
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in the backside for the way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller
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won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure."
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it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for
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any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer
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with him from the hospital at Thourhout, where they attended personally on a surgeon-general. He says he means to use the fat that slowly accumulates in the tin-lid for polishing his boots, and roars with laughter for half an hour at his own joke. But he hasn't much success to-day; we are too preoccupied with another affair. The rumour has materialized. Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either." "But, man, surely it's better at home." "Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie
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short bombardment. Two of our dead lie in the upturned graves. We had merely to throw the earth in on them. We go back. We trot off silently in single file one behind the other. The wounded are taken to the dressing-station. The morning is cloudy. The bearers make a fuss about numbers and tickets, the wounded whimper. It begins to rain. An hour later we reach our lorries and climb in. There is more room now than there was. The rain becomes heavier. We take out waterproof sheets and spread them over our heads. The rain rattles down, and flows off at the sides in streams. The lorries bump through the holes, and we rock to and fro in a half-sleep. Two men in the front of the lorry have long forked poles. They watch for telephone wires which hang crosswise over the road so densely that they might easily pull our heads off. The two fellows take them at the right moment on their poles and lift them over behind us. We hear their call "Mind--wire--," dip the knee in a half-sleep and straighten up again. Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain. It falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up in the line, on the body of the little recruit with the wound that is so much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our hearts. An explosion sounds somewhere. We wince, our eyes become tense, our hands are ready to vault over the side of the lorry into the ditch by the road. It goes no farther--only the monotonous cry: "Mind--wire," --our knees bend--we are again half asleep. CHAPTER V Killing each separate louse is a tedious business when a man has hundreds. The little beasts are hard and the everlasting cracking with one's fingernails very soon becomes wearisome. So Tjaden has rigged up the lid of a boot-polish tin with a piece of wire over the lighted stump of a candle. The lice are simply thrown into this little pan. Crack! and they're done for. We sit around with our shirts on our knees, our bodies naked to the warm air and our hands at work. Haie has a particularly fine brand of louse: they have a red cross on their heads. He suggests that he brought them back with him from the hospital at Thourhout, where they attended personally on a surgeon-general. He says he means to use the fat that slowly accumulates in the tin-lid for polishing his boots, and roars with laughter for half an hour at his own joke. But he hasn't much success to-day; we are too preoccupied with another affair. The rumour has materialized. Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either." "But, man, surely it's better at home." "Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in autumn, the Sundays in the heather, the village bells, the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, the care-free evening hours in the ale-house---- He can't part with all these dreams so abruptly; he merely growls: "What silly questions you do ask." He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons up his tunic. "What would you do, Tjaden?" asks Kropp. Tjaden thinks only of one thing. "See to it that Himmelstoss doesn't get past me." Apparently he would like most to have him in a cage and sail into him with a club every morning. To Kropp he says warmly: "If I were in your place I'd see to it that I became a lieutenant. Then you could grind him till the water in his backside boils." "And you, Detering?" asks Müller like an inquisitor. He's a born schoolmaster with all his questions. Detering is sparing with his words. But on this subject he speaks. He looks at the sky and says only the one sentence: "I would go straight on with the harvesting." Then he gets up and walks off. He is worried. His wife has to look after the farm. They've already taken away two of his horses. Every day he reads the papers that come, to see whether it is raining in his little corner of Oldenburg. They haven't brought the hay in yet. At this moment Himmelstoss appears. He comes straight up to our group. Tjaden's face turns red. He stretches his length on the grass and shuts his eyes in embarrassment. Himmelstoss is a little hesitant, his gait becomes slower. Then he marches up to us. No one makes any motion to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest. He continues to stand in front of us and wait. As no one says anything he launches a "Well?" A couple of seconds go by. Apparently Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. He would like most to set us all on the run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries it on though, and by addressing himself to one instead of to all of us hopes to get some response. Kropp is nearest, so he favours him. "Well, you here
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are too preoccupied with another affair. The rumour has materialized. Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say.<|quote|>"How does it come about exactly?"</|quote|>"How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either." "But, man, surely it's better at home." "Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in autumn, the Sundays in the heather, the village bells, the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, the care-free evening hours in the ale-house---- He can't part with all these dreams so abruptly; he merely growls: "What silly questions you do ask." He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons up his tunic. "What would you do, Tjaden?" asks Kropp. Tjaden thinks only of one thing. "See to it that Himmelstoss doesn't get past me." Apparently he would like most to have him in a cage and sail into him with a club every morning. To Kropp he says warmly: "If I were in your place I'd see to it that I became a lieutenant. Then you could grind him till the water in his backside boils." "And you, Detering?" asks Müller like an inquisitor. He's a born schoolmaster with all his questions. Detering is sparing with his words. But on this subject he speaks. He looks at the sky and says only the one sentence: "I would go straight on with the harvesting." Then he gets
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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"Darling,"
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Brett Ashley
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I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you
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on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him
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I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room.
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you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away
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"You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?" "No. Did we have one? I must have been blind." "You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count. "Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely." "You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now." "I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs." "Don't be a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll
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could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings. I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the _France_. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. "Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?" "Come on. I was just bathing." "Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing." "Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?" "I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses." "Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this, Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table. "I say. We have had a day." "You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?" "No. Did we have one? I must have been blind." "You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count. "Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely." "You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now." "I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs." "Don't be a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It
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I looked back through the two thicknesses of glass and saw them sitting there. She was still talking to him. I went down a side street to the Boulevard Raspail. A taxi came along and I got in and gave the driver the address of my flat. CHAPTER 7 As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram. "Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see you." "Did she leave a card?" "No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice." "Was she with a friend of mine?" "I don't know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little--" She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. "I'll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is tr s, tr s gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see." "They did not leave any word?" "Yes. They said they would be back in an hour." "Send them up when they come." "Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is some one. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu'une, quelqu'une!" The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings. I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the _France_. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. "Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?" "Come on. I was just bathing." "Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing." "Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?" "I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses." "Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this, Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table. "I say. We have had a day." "You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?" "No. Did we have one? I must have been blind." "You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count. "Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely." "You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now." "I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs." "Don't be a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine." "Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick." The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?" I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. "Put two bottles in it, Henry," the count called. "Anything else, sir?" "No. Wait down in the car." He turned to Brett and to me. "We'll want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?" "If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing." "I always like a good meal," said the count. "Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur. "Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin
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up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings. I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the _France_. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. "Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?" "Come on. I was just bathing." "Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing." "Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?" "I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses." "Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this, Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table. "I say. We have had a day." "You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?" "No. Did we have one? I must have been blind." "You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count. "Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely." "You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now." "I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs." "Don't be a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much."<|quote|>"Darling,"</|quote|>she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?"
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The Sun Also Rises
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answered the princess,
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No speaker
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the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune
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robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that
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you, princess, in Heaven's name, before we talk of anything else, to tell me, both for your own sake, the sultan your father's, and mine, what is become of an old lamp which I left upon a shelf in my robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that lamp: and what grieves me most is, that I have been the cause of it." "Princess," replied Aladdin, "do not blame yourself, for I ought to have taken more care of it. But let us now think only of repairing
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was just under the princess's apartment, was soon opened, and Aladdin conducted up into the chamber. It is impossible to express the joy of both at seeing each other, after so cruel a separation. After embracing and shedding tears of joy, they sat down, and Aladdin said: "I beg of you, princess, in Heaven's name, before we talk of anything else, to tell me, both for your own sake, the sultan your father's, and mine, what is become of an old lamp which I left upon a shelf in my robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that lamp: and what grieves me most is, that I have been the cause of it." "Princess," replied Aladdin, "do not blame yourself, for I ought to have taken more care of it. But let us now think only of repairing the loss; tell me what has happened, and into whose hands it has fallen." The princess then related how she had changed the old lamp for a new one, and how the next morning she found herself in the unknown country they were then in, which she was told was
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always treated him so harshly that he dared not reside in it. As she was dressing, one of the women looking through the window perceived Aladdin, and instantly told her mistress. The princess, who could not believe the joyful tidings, hastened herself to the window, and seeing Aladdin, immediately opened it. The noise of opening the window made Aladdin turn his head that way, and perceiving the princess he saluted her with joy. "To lose no time," said she to him, "I have sent to have the private door opened for you; enter, and come up." The private door, which was just under the princess's apartment, was soon opened, and Aladdin conducted up into the chamber. It is impossible to express the joy of both at seeing each other, after so cruel a separation. After embracing and shedding tears of joy, they sat down, and Aladdin said: "I beg of you, princess, in Heaven's name, before we talk of anything else, to tell me, both for your own sake, the sultan your father's, and mine, what is become of an old lamp which I left upon a shelf in my robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that lamp: and what grieves me most is, that I have been the cause of it." "Princess," replied Aladdin, "do not blame yourself, for I ought to have taken more care of it. But let us now think only of repairing the loss; tell me what has happened, and into whose hands it has fallen." The princess then related how she had changed the old lamp for a new one, and how the next morning she found herself in the unknown country they were then in, which she was told was Africa, by the traitor who had transported her thither by his magic art. "Princess," said Aladdin, interrupting her, "you have informed me who the traitor is, by telling me we are in Africa. He is the most perfidious of men; but this is neither a time nor place to give you a full account of his villainies. I desire you only to tell me what he has done with the lamp, and where he has put it." "He carries it carefully wrapt up in his bosom," said the princess; "and this I can assure you, because he pulled it out
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greet his dear Princess Badroulboudour. Pleased with these hopes, he immediately arose, went toward the princess's apartment, and walked some time under her window in expectation of her rising, that he might see her. During this expectation, he began to consider with himself whence the cause of his misfortune had proceeded; and after mature reflection, no longer doubted that it was owing to having trusted the lamp out of his sight. He accused himself of negligence in letting it be a moment away from him. But what puzzled him most was, that he could not imagine who had been so envious of his happiness. He would soon have guessed this, if he had known that both he and his palace were now in Africa, the very name of which would soon have made him remember the magician, his declared enemy; but the genie, the slave of the ring, had not made mention of the name of the country, nor had Aladdin inquired. The princess rose earlier that morning than she had done since her transportation into Africa by the magician, whose presence she was forced to support once a day, because he was master of the palace; though she had always treated him so harshly that he dared not reside in it. As she was dressing, one of the women looking through the window perceived Aladdin, and instantly told her mistress. The princess, who could not believe the joyful tidings, hastened herself to the window, and seeing Aladdin, immediately opened it. The noise of opening the window made Aladdin turn his head that way, and perceiving the princess he saluted her with joy. "To lose no time," said she to him, "I have sent to have the private door opened for you; enter, and come up." The private door, which was just under the princess's apartment, was soon opened, and Aladdin conducted up into the chamber. It is impossible to express the joy of both at seeing each other, after so cruel a separation. After embracing and shedding tears of joy, they sat down, and Aladdin said: "I beg of you, princess, in Heaven's name, before we talk of anything else, to tell me, both for your own sake, the sultan your father's, and mine, what is become of an old lamp which I left upon a shelf in my robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that lamp: and what grieves me most is, that I have been the cause of it." "Princess," replied Aladdin, "do not blame yourself, for I ought to have taken more care of it. But let us now think only of repairing the loss; tell me what has happened, and into whose hands it has fallen." The princess then related how she had changed the old lamp for a new one, and how the next morning she found herself in the unknown country they were then in, which she was told was Africa, by the traitor who had transported her thither by his magic art. "Princess," said Aladdin, interrupting her, "you have informed me who the traitor is, by telling me we are in Africa. He is the most perfidious of men; but this is neither a time nor place to give you a full account of his villainies. I desire you only to tell me what he has done with the lamp, and where he has put it." "He carries it carefully wrapt up in his bosom," said the princess; "and this I can assure you, because he pulled it out before me, and showed it to me in triumph." "Princess," said Aladdin, "do not be displeased that I trouble you with so many questions, since they are equally important to us both. But to come to what most particularly concerns me: tell me, I conjure you, how so wicked and perfidious a man treats you?" "Since I have been here," replied the princess, "he repairs once every day to see me; and I am persuaded the little satisfaction he receives from his visits makes him come no oftener. All his addresses tend to persuade me to break that faith I have pledged to you, and to take him for my husband; giving me to understand I need not entertain hopes of ever seeing you again, for that you were dead, having had your head struck off by my father's order. He added, to justify himself, that you were an ungrateful wretch; that your good fortune was owing to him, and a great many other things of that nature which I forbear to repeat: but as he received no other answer from me but grievous complaints and tears, he was always forced to retire with as little satisfaction as he came.
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left him. "What wouldst thou have?" said the genie. "I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those that have that ring on their finger; both I and the other slaves of the ring." Aladdin, agreeably surprised at an apparition he so little expected in his present calamity, replied; "Save my life, genie, a second time, either by showing me to the place where the palace I caused to be built now stands, or immediately transporting it back where it first stood." "What you command me," answered the genie, "is not wholly in my power; I am only the slave of the ring; you must address yourself to the slave of the lamp." "If that be the case," replied Aladdin, "I command thee, by the power of the ring, to transport me to the spot where my palace stands, in what part of the world soever it may be, and set me down under the window of the Princess Badroulboudour." These words were no sooner out of his mouth than the genie transported him into Africa, to the midst of a large plain, where his palace stood, and placing him exactly under the window of the princess's apartment, left him. All this was done almost in an instant. Aladdin, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, knew his palace again; but as the night was far advanced and all was quiet, he retired to some distance, and sat down at the foot of a large tree. There, full of hopes, and reflecting on his happiness, for which he was indebted to chance, he found himself in a much more comfortable situation than when he was arrested and carried before the sultan, being now delivered from the immediate danger of losing his life. He amused himself for some time with these agreeable thoughts; but not having slept for two days, was unable to resist the drowsiness which came upon him, but fell fast asleep. The next morning, as soon as day appeared, Aladdin was agreeably awakened by the singing not only of the birds which had roosted in the tree under which he had passed the night, but also of those which frequented the thick groves of the palace garden. When he cast his eyes on that wonderful edifice, he felt inexpressible joy at thinking he might soon be master of it again, and once more greet his dear Princess Badroulboudour. Pleased with these hopes, he immediately arose, went toward the princess's apartment, and walked some time under her window in expectation of her rising, that he might see her. During this expectation, he began to consider with himself whence the cause of his misfortune had proceeded; and after mature reflection, no longer doubted that it was owing to having trusted the lamp out of his sight. He accused himself of negligence in letting it be a moment away from him. But what puzzled him most was, that he could not imagine who had been so envious of his happiness. He would soon have guessed this, if he had known that both he and his palace were now in Africa, the very name of which would soon have made him remember the magician, his declared enemy; but the genie, the slave of the ring, had not made mention of the name of the country, nor had Aladdin inquired. The princess rose earlier that morning than she had done since her transportation into Africa by the magician, whose presence she was forced to support once a day, because he was master of the palace; though she had always treated him so harshly that he dared not reside in it. As she was dressing, one of the women looking through the window perceived Aladdin, and instantly told her mistress. The princess, who could not believe the joyful tidings, hastened herself to the window, and seeing Aladdin, immediately opened it. The noise of opening the window made Aladdin turn his head that way, and perceiving the princess he saluted her with joy. "To lose no time," said she to him, "I have sent to have the private door opened for you; enter, and come up." The private door, which was just under the princess's apartment, was soon opened, and Aladdin conducted up into the chamber. It is impossible to express the joy of both at seeing each other, after so cruel a separation. After embracing and shedding tears of joy, they sat down, and Aladdin said: "I beg of you, princess, in Heaven's name, before we talk of anything else, to tell me, both for your own sake, the sultan your father's, and mine, what is become of an old lamp which I left upon a shelf in my robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that lamp: and what grieves me most is, that I have been the cause of it." "Princess," replied Aladdin, "do not blame yourself, for I ought to have taken more care of it. But let us now think only of repairing the loss; tell me what has happened, and into whose hands it has fallen." The princess then related how she had changed the old lamp for a new one, and how the next morning she found herself in the unknown country they were then in, which she was told was Africa, by the traitor who had transported her thither by his magic art. "Princess," said Aladdin, interrupting her, "you have informed me who the traitor is, by telling me we are in Africa. He is the most perfidious of men; but this is neither a time nor place to give you a full account of his villainies. I desire you only to tell me what he has done with the lamp, and where he has put it." "He carries it carefully wrapt up in his bosom," said the princess; "and this I can assure you, because he pulled it out before me, and showed it to me in triumph." "Princess," said Aladdin, "do not be displeased that I trouble you with so many questions, since they are equally important to us both. But to come to what most particularly concerns me: tell me, I conjure you, how so wicked and perfidious a man treats you?" "Since I have been here," replied the princess, "he repairs once every day to see me; and I am persuaded the little satisfaction he receives from his visits makes him come no oftener. All his addresses tend to persuade me to break that faith I have pledged to you, and to take him for my husband; giving me to understand I need not entertain hopes of ever seeing you again, for that you were dead, having had your head struck off by my father's order. He added, to justify himself, that you were an ungrateful wretch; that your good fortune was owing to him, and a great many other things of that nature which I forbear to repeat: but as he received no other answer from me but grievous complaints and tears, he was always forced to retire with as little satisfaction as he came. I doubt not his intention is to allow me time to overcome my grief, in hopes that afterward I may change my sentiments. But my dear husband's presence removes all my apprehensions." "I am confident my attempts to punish the magician will not be in vain," replied Aladdin, "since my princess's fears are removed, and I think I have found the means to deliver you from both your enemy and mine; to execute this design, it is necessary for me to go to the town. I shall return by noon, will then communicate my design, and what must be done by you to ensure success. But that you may not be surprised, I think it proper to acquaint you that I shall change my apparel, and beg of you to give orders that I may not wait long at the private door, but that it may be opened at the first knock." When Aladdin was out of the palace, he looked round him on all sides, and perceiving a peasant going into the country, hastened after him; and when he had overtaken him, made a proposal to him to change habits, which the man agreed to. When they had made the exchange, the countryman went about his business, and Aladdin to the city. After traversing several streets, he came to that part of the town where all descriptions of merchants had their particular streets, according to their trades. He went into that of the druggists; and going into one of the largest and best-furnished shops, asked the druggist if he had a certain powder which he named. The druggist, judging Aladdin by his habit to be very poor, and that he had not money enough to pay for it, told him he had it, but that it was very dear; upon which Aladdin penetrating his thoughts, pulled out his purse, and showing him some gold, asked for half a drachm of the powder; which the druggist weighed, wrapped up in paper, and gave him, telling him the price was a piece of gold. Aladdin put the money into his hand, and returned to the palace, where he waited not long at the private door. When he came into the princess's apartment, he said to her: "Princess, perhaps the aversion you tell me you have for your captor may be an objection to your executing what I am going to propose;
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notwithstanding the darkness of the night, knew his palace again; but as the night was far advanced and all was quiet, he retired to some distance, and sat down at the foot of a large tree. There, full of hopes, and reflecting on his happiness, for which he was indebted to chance, he found himself in a much more comfortable situation than when he was arrested and carried before the sultan, being now delivered from the immediate danger of losing his life. He amused himself for some time with these agreeable thoughts; but not having slept for two days, was unable to resist the drowsiness which came upon him, but fell fast asleep. The next morning, as soon as day appeared, Aladdin was agreeably awakened by the singing not only of the birds which had roosted in the tree under which he had passed the night, but also of those which frequented the thick groves of the palace garden. When he cast his eyes on that wonderful edifice, he felt inexpressible joy at thinking he might soon be master of it again, and once more greet his dear Princess Badroulboudour. Pleased with these hopes, he immediately arose, went toward the princess's apartment, and walked some time under her window in expectation of her rising, that he might see her. During this expectation, he began to consider with himself whence the cause of his misfortune had proceeded; and after mature reflection, no longer doubted that it was owing to having trusted the lamp out of his sight. He accused himself of negligence in letting it be a moment away from him. But what puzzled him most was, that he could not imagine who had been so envious of his happiness. He would soon have guessed this, if he had known that both he and his palace were now in Africa, the very name of which would soon have made him remember the magician, his declared enemy; but the genie, the slave of the ring, had not made mention of the name of the country, nor had Aladdin inquired. The princess rose earlier that morning than she had done since her transportation into Africa by the magician, whose presence she was forced to support once a day, because he was master of the palace; though she had always treated him so harshly that he dared not reside in it. As she was dressing, one of the women looking through the window perceived Aladdin, and instantly told her mistress. The princess, who could not believe the joyful tidings, hastened herself to the window, and seeing Aladdin, immediately opened it. The noise of opening the window made Aladdin turn his head that way, and perceiving the princess he saluted her with joy. "To lose no time," said she to him, "I have sent to have the private door opened for you; enter, and come up." The private door, which was just under the princess's apartment, was soon opened, and Aladdin conducted up into the chamber. It is impossible to express the joy of both at seeing each other, after so cruel a separation. After embracing and shedding tears of joy, they sat down, and Aladdin said: "I beg of you, princess, in Heaven's name, before we talk of anything else, to tell me, both for your own sake, the sultan your father's, and mine, what is become of an old lamp which I left upon a shelf in my robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase." "Alas! dear husband,"<|quote|>answered the princess,</|quote|>"I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that lamp: and what grieves me most is, that I have been the cause of it." "Princess," replied Aladdin, "do not blame yourself, for I ought to have taken more care of it. But let us now think only of repairing the loss; tell me what has happened, and into whose hands it has fallen." The princess then related how she had changed the old lamp for a new one, and how the next morning she found herself in the unknown country they were then in, which she was told was Africa, by the traitor who had transported her thither by his magic art. "Princess," said Aladdin, interrupting her, "you have informed me who the traitor is, by telling me we are in Africa. He is the most perfidious of men; but this is neither a time nor place to give you a full account of his villainies. I desire you only to tell me what he has done with the lamp, and where he has put it." "He carries it carefully wrapt up in his bosom," said the princess; "and this I can assure you, because he pulled it out before me, and showed it to me in triumph." "Princess," said Aladdin, "do not be displeased that I trouble you with so many questions, since they are equally important to us both. But to come to what most particularly concerns me: tell me, I conjure you, how so wicked and perfidious a man treats you?" "Since I have been here," replied the princess, "he repairs once every day to see me; and I am persuaded the little satisfaction he receives from his visits makes him come no oftener. All his addresses tend to persuade me to break that faith I have pledged to you, and to take him for my husband; giving me to understand I need not entertain hopes of ever seeing you again, for that you were dead, having had your head struck off by my father's order. He added, to justify himself, that you were an ungrateful wretch; that your good fortune was owing to him, and a great many other things of that nature which I forbear to repeat: but as he received no other answer from me but grievous complaints and tears, he was always forced to retire with as little satisfaction as he came. I doubt not his intention is to allow me time to overcome my grief, in hopes that afterward I may change my sentiments. But my dear husband's presence removes all my apprehensions." "I am confident my attempts to punish the magician will not be in vain," replied Aladdin, "since my princess's fears are removed, and I think I have found the means to deliver you from both your enemy and mine; to execute this design, it is necessary for me to
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Arabian Nights (4)
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--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.
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No speaker
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great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my
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agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t
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to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he
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this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure,
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on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go
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implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?” “Well--if you’ll take it on my estimate.” “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a
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him on the two occasions before I went away in the last degree offensive and outrageous; but even if he charged one and one’s poor dear decent old defences with less rabid a fury everything about him would forbid _that_ kind of relation.” What kind of relation, if any, Hugh’s deficiencies might still render thinkable Lord Theign was kept from going on to mention by the voice of Mr. Gotch, who had thrown open the door to the not altogether assured sound of “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” The guest in possession gave a cry of impatience, but Lady Sandgate said “Coming up?” “If his lordship will see him.” “Oh, he’s beyond his time,” his lordship pronounced-- “I can’t see him now!” “Ah, but _mustn’t_ you--and mayn’t _I_ then?” She waited, however, for no response to signify to her servant “Let him come,” and her companion could but exhale a groan of reluctant accommodation as if he wondered at the point she made of it. It enlightened him indeed perhaps a little that she went on while Gotch did her bidding. “Does the kind of relation you’d be condemned to with Mr. Crimble let you down, down, down, as you say, more than the relation you’ve been having with Mr. Bender?” Lord Theign had for it the most uninforming of stares. “Do you mean don’t I hate ‘em equally both?” She cut his further reply short, however, by a “Hush!” of warning--Mr. Bender was there and his introducer had left them. Lord Theign, full of his purpose of departure, sacrificed hereupon little to ceremony. “I’ve but a moment, to my regret, to give you, Mr. Bender, and if you’ve been unavoidably detained, as you great bustling people are so apt to be, it will perhaps still be soon enough for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir” --he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal. Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?--removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?” “Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content--and invite _you_ to be.” Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?” “Well--if you’ll take it on my estimate.” “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the
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tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!”<|quote|>--and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch.</|quote|>“You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave
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The Outcry
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So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying
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No speaker
|
bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which
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very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the
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destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means
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at her. "And what," asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice, "did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population
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you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what," asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice, "did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these
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time had been faintly excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus: "Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Louisa this is Miss Louisa the miserable but natural end of your late career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what," asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice, "did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must take everything on political economy. Body number three, wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to wonder. There was a library in Coketown, to which general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the people read in this library: a point whereon little rivers of tabular statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives
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shake of her head, "deny it." Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and stand with his back to the fire, looking at her; she was such an enhancement of his position. "And you were in crack society. Devilish high society," he said, warming his legs. "It is true, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affectation of humility the very opposite of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling it. "You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the rest of it," said Mr. Bounderby. "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind of social widowhood upon her. "It is unquestionably true." Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, literally embraced his legs in his great satisfaction and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then announced, he received the former with a shake of the hand, and the latter with a kiss. "Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On coming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also to Louisa; but in her confusion unluckily omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrous Bounderby had the following remarks to make: "Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name of that lady by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. That lady acts as mistress of this house, and she is a highly connected lady. Consequently, if ever you come again into any room in this house, you will make a short stay in it if you don't behave towards that lady in your most respectful manner. Now, I don't care a button what you do to _me_, because I don't affect to be anybody. So far from having high connections I have no connections at all, and I come of the scum of the earth. But towards that lady, I do care what you do; and you shall do what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not come here." "I hope, Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a conciliatory voice, "that this was merely an oversight." "My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. Sparsit," said Bounderby, "that this was merely an oversight. Very likely. However, as you are aware, ma'am, I don't allow of even oversights towards you." "You are very good indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her State humility. "It is not worth speaking of." Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus: "Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Louisa this is Miss Louisa the miserable but natural end of your late career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know." "Yes, sir, very," she answered, curtseying. "I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what," asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice, "did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must take everything on political economy. Body number three, wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to wonder. There was a library in Coketown, to which general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the people read in this library: a point whereon little rivers of tabular statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women! They sometimes, after fifteen hours' work, sat down to read mere fables about men and women, more or less like themselves, and about children, more or less like their own. They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead of Euclid, and seemed to be on the whole more comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever working, in print and out of print, at this eccentric sum, and he never could make out how it yielded this unaccountable product. "I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether, and I hate everybody except you," said the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight. "You don't hate Sissy, Tom?" "I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates me," said Tom, moodily. "No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!" "She must," said Tom. "She must just hate and detest the whole set-out of us. They'll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she's getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth. "As to me," said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, "I am a Donkey, that's what _I_ am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one." "Not me, I hope, Tom?" "No, Loo; I wouldn't hurt _you_. I made an exception of you at first. I don't know what this jolly old Jaundiced Jail," Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one, "would be without you." "Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said
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to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to all who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?" said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping his voice. "Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there." "Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. "I don't ask about him. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?" "O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!" It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa looked at her. "And what," asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice, "did you read to your father, Jupe?" "About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies," she sobbed out; "and about" "Hush!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe it with interest." "Well," returned Mr. Bounderby, "I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn't do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, _very_ well!"<|quote|>So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the evening. CHAPTER VIII NEVER WONDER LET us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the tune. When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one day, by saying</|quote|>"Tom, I wonder" upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, "Louisa, never wonder!" Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says M'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder. Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one another's faces and pulled one another's hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement which they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must take everything on political economy. Body number three, wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to wonder. There was a library in Coketown, to which general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about what the people read in this library: a point whereon little rivers of tabular statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women! They sometimes, after fifteen hours' work, sat down to read mere fables about men and women, more or
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Hard Times
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Next morning.
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No speaker
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used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother,"
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later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across.
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"Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you
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"I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda
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there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away
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my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough." "I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod." * * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't
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did you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?" "There's no need to talk." "No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough." "I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod." * * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway, I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me. Best love from Brenda. When Tony read this his first thought was that Brenda had lost her reason. "She's only seen Beaver twice to my knowledge," he said. But later he showed the letter to Jock, who said, "I'm sorry it should have happened like this." "But it's not true, is it?" "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time." But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda. CHAPTER IV ENGLISH GOTHIC--II [I] "How's the old boy taking it?" "Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast," said Brenda. "I'm afraid he minds a lot." "Well, you wouldn't like it if he didn't," said Polly to console her. "No, I suppose not." "I shall stick by you whatever happens," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "Oh, everything is going quite smoothly now," said Brenda. "There was a certain amount of _g?ne_ with relatives." * * * * * Tony had been living with Jock for the last three weeks. Mrs Rattery had gone to California and he was grateful for company. They dined together most evenings. They had given up going to Bratt's; so had Beaver; they were afraid of meeting each other. Instead, Tony and Jock went to Brown's, where Beaver was not a member. Beaver was continually with Brenda nowadays, at one of half a dozen houses. Mrs Beaver did not like the turn things had taken; her workmen had been sent back from Hetton with their job unfinished. * * * * * In the first week Tony had had several distasteful interviews. Allan had attempted to act as peacemaker. "You just wait a few weeks," he had said. "Brenda will come back. She'll soon get sick of Beaver." "But I don't want her back." "I know just how you feel, but it doesn't do to be medieval about it. If Brenda hadn't been upset at John's death this need never have come to a crisis. Why, last year Marjorie was going everywhere with that ass Robin Beaseley. She was mad about him at
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send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later."<|quote|>Next morning.</|quote|>"A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the
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A Handful Of Dust
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Ralph repeated obstinately.
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No speaker
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you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I
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sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently.
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that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to
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concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears.
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saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It
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she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a salt-cellar and sweeping up a little heap of bread-crumbs. "I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth. "In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad," he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more. In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn
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whether Ralph had achieved the process which is called making up one s mind, certainly he had given up testing the good sense, the independent character, the intelligence shown in her remarks. He had been building one of those piles of thought, as ramshackle and fantastic as a Chinese pagoda, half from words let fall by gentlemen in gaiters, half from the litter in his own mind, about duck shooting and legal history, about the Roman occupation of Lincoln and the relations of country gentlemen with their wives, when, from all this disconnected rambling, there suddenly formed itself in his mind the idea that he would ask Mary to marry him. The idea was so spontaneous that it seemed to shape itself of its own accord before his eyes. It was then that he turned round and made use of his old, instinctive phrase: "Well, Mary ?" As it presented itself to him at first, the idea was so new and interesting that he was half inclined to address it, without more ado, to Mary herself. His natural instinct to divide his thoughts carefully into two different classes before he expressed them to her prevailed. But as he watched her looking out of the window and describing the old lady, the woman with the perambulator, the bailiff and the dissenting minister, his eyes filled involuntarily with tears. He would have liked to lay his head on her shoulder and sob, while she parted his hair with her fingers and soothed him and said: "There, there. Don t cry! Tell me why you re crying "; and they would clasp each other tight, and her arms would hold him like his mother s. He felt that he was very lonely, and that he was afraid of the other people in the room. "How damnable this all is!" he exclaimed abruptly. "What are you talking about?" she replied, rather vaguely, still looking out of the window. He resented this divided attention more than, perhaps, he knew, and he thought how Mary would soon be on her way to America. "Mary," he said, "I want to talk to you. Haven t we nearly done? Why don t they take away these plates?" Mary felt his agitation without looking at him; she felt convinced that she knew what it was that he wished to say to her. "They ll come all in good time," she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a salt-cellar and sweeping up a little heap of bread-crumbs. "I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth. "In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad," he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more. In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now." "Katharine Hilbery!" Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond
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that he was afraid of the other people in the room. "How damnable this all is!" he exclaimed abruptly. "What are you talking about?" she replied, rather vaguely, still looking out of the window. He resented this divided attention more than, perhaps, he knew, and he thought how Mary would soon be on her way to America. "Mary," he said, "I want to talk to you. Haven t we nearly done? Why don t they take away these plates?" Mary felt his agitation without looking at him; she felt convinced that she knew what it was that he wished to say to her. "They ll come all in good time," she said; and felt it necessary to display her extreme calmness by lifting a salt-cellar and sweeping up a little heap of bread-crumbs. "I want to apologize," Ralph continued, not quite knowing what he was about to say, but feeling some curious instinct which urged him to commit himself irrevocably, and to prevent the moment of intimacy from passing. "I think I ve treated you very badly. That is, I ve told you lies. Did you guess that I was lying to you? Once in Lincoln s Inn Fields and again to-day on our walk. I am a liar, Mary. Did you know that? Do you think you do know me?" "I think I do," she said. At this point the waiter changed their plates. "It s true I don t want you to go to America," he said, looking fixedly at the table-cloth. "In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad," he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low. "If I weren t a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me. And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I m saying, I also believe that it s good we should know each other the world being what it is, you see" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar,"<|quote|>Ralph repeated obstinately.</|quote|>"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more. In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the
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Night And Day
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Brett said.
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No speaker
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something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the
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the trees. "They must think something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were
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walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single
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found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the
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climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where the bull would enter. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage. I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with
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down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where the bull would enter. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage. I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with an iron bar. Inside something seemed to explode. The bull, striking into the wood from side to side with his horns, made a great noise. Then I saw a dark muzzle and the shadow of horns, and then, with a clattering on the wood in the hollow box, the bull charged and came out into the corral, skidding with his forefeet in the straw as he stopped, his head up, the great hump of muscle on his neck swollen tight, his body muscles quivering as he looked up at the crowd on the stone walls. The two steers backed away against the wall, their heads sunken, their eyes watching the bull. The bull saw them and charged. A man shouted from behind one of the boxes and slapped his hat against the planks, and the bull, before he reached the steer, turned, gathered himself and charged where the man had been, trying to reach him behind the planks with a half-dozen quick, searching drives with the right horn. "My God, isn't he beautiful?" Brett said. We were looking right down on him. "Look how he knows how to use his horns," I said. "He's got a left and a right
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"Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket." What's this? "I said." Medals? "Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where the bull would enter. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage. I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with an iron bar. Inside something seemed to explode. The bull, striking into the wood from side to side with his horns, made a great noise. Then I saw a dark muzzle and the shadow of horns, and then, with a clattering on the wood in the hollow box, the bull charged and came out into the corral, skidding with his forefeet in the straw as he stopped, his head up, the great hump of muscle on his neck swollen tight, his body muscles quivering as he looked up at the crowd on the stone walls. The two steers backed away against the wall, their heads sunken, their eyes watching the bull. The bull saw them and charged. A man shouted from behind one of the boxes and slapped his hat against the planks, and the bull, before he reached the steer, turned, gathered himself and charged where the man had been, trying to reach him behind the planks with a half-dozen quick, searching drives with the right horn. "My God, isn't he beautiful?" Brett said. We were looking right down on him. "Look how he knows how to use his horns," I said. "He's got a left and a right just like a boxer." "Not really?" "You watch." "It goes too fast." "Wait. There'll be another one in a minute." They had backed up another cage into the entrance. In the far corner a man, from behind one of the plank shelters, attracted the bull, and while the bull was facing away the gate was pulled up and a second bull came out into the corral. He charged straight for the steers and two men ran out from behind the planks and shouted, to turn him. He did not change his direction and the men shouted: "Hah! Hah! Toro!" and waved their arms; the two steers turned sideways to take the shock, and the bull drove into one of the steers. "Don't look," I said to Brett. She was watching, fascinated. "Fine," I said. "If it doesn't buck you." "I saw it," she said. "I saw him shift from his left to his right horn." "Damn good!" The steer was down now, his neck stretched out, his head twisted, he lay the way he had fallen. Suddenly the bull left off and made for the other steer which had been standing at the far end, his head swinging, watching it all. The steer ran awkwardly and the bull caught him, hooked him lightly in the flank, and then turned away and looked up at the crowd on the walls, his crest of muscle rising. The steer came up to him and made as though to nose at him and the bull hooked perfunctorily. The next time he nosed at the steer and then the two of them trotted over to the other bull. When the next bull came out, all three, the two bulls and the steer, stood together, their heads side by side, their horns against the newcomer. In a few minutes the steer picked the new bull up, quieted him down, and made him one of the herd. When the last two bulls had been unloaded the herd were all together. The steer who had been gored had gotten to his feet and stood against the stone wall. None of the bulls came near him, and he did not attempt to join the herd. We climbed down from the wall with the crowd, and had a last look at the bulls through the loopholes in the wall of the corral. They were all quiet now, their heads down.
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people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen,"<|quote|>Brett said.</|quote|>"They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where the bull would enter. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage. I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with an iron bar. Inside something seemed to explode. The bull, striking into the wood from side to side with his horns, made a great noise. Then I saw a dark muzzle and the shadow of horns, and then, with a clattering on the wood in the hollow box, the bull charged and came out into the
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The Sun Also Rises
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Mr. Bertram,'
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No speaker
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"said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile;
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open behind me." Mr. Bertram,' "said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile; but it was a smile
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the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me." Mr. Bertram,' "said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked
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as a missionary into foreign parts.' "She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me." Mr. Bertram,' "said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank
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countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' "She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me." Mr. Bertram,' "said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done." "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim," Why would not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might
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and above all, recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought; all this together most grievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess that, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished more than astonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' "She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me." Mr. Bertram,' "said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done." "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim," Why would not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' "Could you have believed it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened." "Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty." "Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for me,
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which is not small shall all go that way; and when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'" After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak again. At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon have done. I have told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak, I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say), but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every reproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought; all this together most grievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess that, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished more than astonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' "She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me." Mr. Bertram,' "said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done." "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim," Why would not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' "Could you have believed it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened." "Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty." "Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, she would . Hers are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told her so." "Did you?" "Yes; when I left her I told her so." "How long were you together?" "Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can." He was obliged to pause more than once as he continued. " We must persuade Henry to marry her,' "said she" ; and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'" After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the subject had been entered on at all. It was long before
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or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished, exceedingly astonished more than astonished. I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' "She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me." Mr. Bertram,' "said she. I looked back."<|quote|>Mr. Bertram,'</|quote|>"said she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done." "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim," Why would not she have him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' "Could you have believed it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened." "Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty." "Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, she would . Hers are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I told her so." "Did you?" "Yes; when I left her I told her so." "How long were you together?" "Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can." He was obliged to pause more than once as he continued. " We must persuade Henry to marry her,' "said she" ; and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even _he_ could
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Mansfield Park
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Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.
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No speaker
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at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery
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CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl
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advice to give one s children. One can only hope that they will have the same vision and the same power to believe, without which life would be so meaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband." CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing
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the great Fairy Tree whose boughs are still hung with enchanting toys, though they are rarer now, perhaps, and between the branches one sees no longer the blue sky, but the stars and the tops of the mountains." "One doesn t know any more, does one? One hasn t any advice to give one s children. One can only hope that they will have the same vision and the same power to believe, without which life would be so meaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband." CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father. He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the door closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full
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ve written this, it comes over me that, of course, all the time, Katharine has what he hasn t. She does command, she isn t nervous; it comes naturally to her to rule and control. It s time that she should give all this to some one who will need her when we aren t there, save in our spirits, for whatever people say, I m sure I shall come back to this wonderful world where one s been so happy and so miserable, where, even now, I seem to see myself stretching out my hands for another present from the great Fairy Tree whose boughs are still hung with enchanting toys, though they are rarer now, perhaps, and between the branches one sees no longer the blue sky, but the stars and the tops of the mountains." "One doesn t know any more, does one? One hasn t any advice to give one s children. One can only hope that they will have the same vision and the same power to believe, without which life would be so meaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband." CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father. He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the door closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows, firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in the middle of the room, with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. But this time Katharine was there by herself; the volume in her hand showed that she expected no visitors. Ralph said something about hoping to find her father. "My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect him soon." It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that she received him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored
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is nearly over, and age is so cruel? But Katharine said to me, I am happy. I m very happy. And then I thought, though it all seemed so desperately dismal at the time, Katharine had said she was happy, and I should have a son, and it would all turn out so much more wonderfully than I could possibly imagine, for though the sermons don t say so, I do believe the world is meant for us to be happy in. She told me that they would live quite near us, and see us every day; and she would go on with the Life, and we should finish it as we had meant to. And, after all, it would be far more horrid if she didn t marry or suppose she married some one we couldn t endure? Suppose she had fallen in love with some one who was married already?" "And though one never thinks any one good enough for the people one s fond of, he has the kindest, truest instincts, I m sure, and though he seems nervous and his manner is not commanding, I only think these things because it s Katharine. And now I ve written this, it comes over me that, of course, all the time, Katharine has what he hasn t. She does command, she isn t nervous; it comes naturally to her to rule and control. It s time that she should give all this to some one who will need her when we aren t there, save in our spirits, for whatever people say, I m sure I shall come back to this wonderful world where one s been so happy and so miserable, where, even now, I seem to see myself stretching out my hands for another present from the great Fairy Tree whose boughs are still hung with enchanting toys, though they are rarer now, perhaps, and between the branches one sees no longer the blue sky, but the stars and the tops of the mountains." "One doesn t know any more, does one? One hasn t any advice to give one s children. One can only hope that they will have the same vision and the same power to believe, without which life would be so meaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband." CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father. He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the door closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows, firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in the middle of the room, with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. But this time Katharine was there by herself; the volume in her hand showed that she expected no visitors. Ralph said something about hoping to find her father. "My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect him soon." It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that she received him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored by drinking tea and reading a book all alone; at any rate, she tossed the book on to a sofa with a gesture of relief. "Is that one of the moderns whom you despise?" he asked, smiling at the carelessness of her gesture. "Yes," she replied. "I think even you would despise him." "Even I?" he repeated. "Why even I?" "You said you liked modern things; I said I hated them." This was not a very accurate report of their conversation among the relics, perhaps, but Ralph was flattered to think that she remembered anything about it. "Or did I confess that I hated all books?" she went on, seeing him look up with an air of inquiry. "I forget" "Do you hate all books?" he asked. "It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I ve only read ten, perhaps; but Here she pulled herself up short." "Well?" "Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for ever talking about your feelings? That s what I can t make out. And poetry s all about feelings novels are all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing
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to buy more oysters he thought he knew where they could find a fishmonger s shop still open. She breathed deeply a sigh of relief. Extract from a letter sent a few days later by Mrs. Hilbery to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Milvain: "... How stupid of me to forget the name in my telegram. Such a nice, rich, English name, too, and, in addition, he has all the graces of intellect; he has read literally _everything_. I tell Katharine, I shall always put him on my right side at dinner, so as to have him by me when people begin talking about characters in Shakespeare. They won t be rich, but they ll be very, very happy. I was sitting in my room late one night, feeling that nothing nice would ever happen to me again, when I heard Katharine outside in the passage, and I thought to myself, Shall I call her in? and then I thought (in that hopeless, dreary way one does think, with the fire going out and one s birthday just over), Why should I lay my troubles on _her?_ But my little self-control had its reward, for next moment she tapped at the door and came in, and sat on the rug, and though we neither of us said anything, I felt so happy all of a second that I couldn t help crying, Oh, Katharine, when you come to my age, how I hope you ll have a daughter, too! You know how silent Katharine is. She was so silent, for such a long time, that in my foolish, nervous state I dreaded something, I don t quite know what. And then she told me how, after all, she had made up her mind. She had written. She expected him to-morrow. At first I wasn t glad at all. I didn t want her to marry any one; but when she said, It will make no difference. I shall always care for you and father most, then I saw how selfish I was, and I told her she must give him everything, everything, everything! I told her I should be thankful to come second. But why, when everything s turned out just as one always hoped it would turn out, why then can one do nothing but cry, nothing but feel a desolate old woman whose life s been a failure, and now is nearly over, and age is so cruel? But Katharine said to me, I am happy. I m very happy. And then I thought, though it all seemed so desperately dismal at the time, Katharine had said she was happy, and I should have a son, and it would all turn out so much more wonderfully than I could possibly imagine, for though the sermons don t say so, I do believe the world is meant for us to be happy in. She told me that they would live quite near us, and see us every day; and she would go on with the Life, and we should finish it as we had meant to. And, after all, it would be far more horrid if she didn t marry or suppose she married some one we couldn t endure? Suppose she had fallen in love with some one who was married already?" "And though one never thinks any one good enough for the people one s fond of, he has the kindest, truest instincts, I m sure, and though he seems nervous and his manner is not commanding, I only think these things because it s Katharine. And now I ve written this, it comes over me that, of course, all the time, Katharine has what he hasn t. She does command, she isn t nervous; it comes naturally to her to rule and control. It s time that she should give all this to some one who will need her when we aren t there, save in our spirits, for whatever people say, I m sure I shall come back to this wonderful world where one s been so happy and so miserable, where, even now, I seem to see myself stretching out my hands for another present from the great Fairy Tree whose boughs are still hung with enchanting toys, though they are rarer now, perhaps, and between the branches one sees no longer the blue sky, but the stars and the tops of the mountains." "One doesn t know any more, does one? One hasn t any advice to give one s children. One can only hope that they will have the same vision and the same power to believe, without which life would be so meaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband." CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father. He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the door closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows, firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in the middle of the room, with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. But this time Katharine was there by herself; the volume in her hand showed that she expected no visitors. Ralph said something about hoping to find her father. "My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect him soon." It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that she received him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored by drinking tea and reading a book all alone; at any rate, she tossed the book on to a sofa with a gesture of relief. "Is that one of the moderns whom you despise?" he asked, smiling at the carelessness of her gesture. "Yes," she replied. "I think even you would despise him." "Even I?" he repeated. "Why even I?" "You said you liked modern things; I said I hated them." This was not a very accurate report of their conversation among the relics, perhaps, but Ralph was flattered to think that she remembered anything about it. "Or did I confess that I hated all books?" she went on, seeing him look up with an air of inquiry. "I forget" "Do you hate all books?" he asked. "It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I ve only read ten, perhaps; but Here she pulled herself up short." "Well?" "Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for ever talking about your feelings? That s what I can t make out. And poetry s all about feelings novels are all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with bread and butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she rose to go upstairs. Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger. "My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?" she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh. "Should I tell you
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but when she said, It will make no difference. I shall always care for you and father most, then I saw how selfish I was, and I told her she must give him everything, everything, everything! I told her I should be thankful to come second. But why, when everything s turned out just as one always hoped it would turn out, why then can one do nothing but cry, nothing but feel a desolate old woman whose life s been a failure, and now is nearly over, and age is so cruel? But Katharine said to me, I am happy. I m very happy. And then I thought, though it all seemed so desperately dismal at the time, Katharine had said she was happy, and I should have a son, and it would all turn out so much more wonderfully than I could possibly imagine, for though the sermons don t say so, I do believe the world is meant for us to be happy in. She told me that they would live quite near us, and see us every day; and she would go on with the Life, and we should finish it as we had meant to. And, after all, it would be far more horrid if she didn t marry or suppose she married some one we couldn t endure? Suppose she had fallen in love with some one who was married already?" "And though one never thinks any one good enough for the people one s fond of, he has the kindest, truest instincts, I m sure, and though he seems nervous and his manner is not commanding, I only think these things because it s Katharine. And now I ve written this, it comes over me that, of course, all the time, Katharine has what he hasn t. She does command, she isn t nervous; it comes naturally to her to rule and control. It s time that she should give all this to some one who will need her when we aren t there, save in our spirits, for whatever people say, I m sure I shall come back to this wonderful world where one s been so happy and so miserable, where, even now, I seem to see myself stretching out my hands for another present from the great Fairy Tree whose boughs are still hung with enchanting toys, though they are rarer now, perhaps, and between the branches one sees no longer the blue sky, but the stars and the tops of the mountains." "One doesn t know any more, does one? One hasn t any advice to give one s children. One can only hope that they will have the same vision and the same power to believe, without which life would be so meaningless. That is what I ask for Katharine and her husband." CHAPTER XII "Is Mr. Hilbery at home, or Mrs. Hilbery?"<|quote|>Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later.</|quote|>"No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father. He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the door closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows, firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in the middle of the room, with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. But this time Katharine was there by herself; the volume in her hand showed that she expected no visitors. Ralph said something about hoping to find her father. "My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect him soon." It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that she received him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored by drinking tea and reading a book all alone; at any rate, she tossed the book on to a sofa with a gesture of relief. "Is that one of the moderns whom you despise?" he asked, smiling at the carelessness of her gesture. "Yes," she replied. "I think even you would despise him." "Even I?" he repeated. "Why even I?" "You said you liked modern things; I said I hated them." This was not a very accurate report of their conversation among the relics, perhaps, but Ralph was flattered to think that she remembered anything about it. "Or did I confess that I hated all books?" she went on, seeing him look up with an air of inquiry. "I forget" "Do you hate all books?" he asked. "It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I ve only read ten, perhaps; but Here she pulled herself up short." "Well?" "Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for ever talking about your feelings? That s what I can t make out. And poetry s all about feelings novels are all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with bread and butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she rose to go upstairs. Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five
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Night And Day
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"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."
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Katczinsky
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mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue.
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to heaven, lets off a mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue. At the same time they
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we are losing the war because we can salute too well," he says. Kropp stalks up, with his breeches rolled up and his feet bare. He lays out his washed socks to dry on the grass. Kat turns his eyes to heaven, lets off a mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue. At the same time they lay a bottle of beer on the result of an air-fight that's going on above us. Katczinsky won't budge from the opinion, which as an old Front-hog, he rhymes: Give 'em all the same grub and all the same pay
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on the sunny side of the hut. There is a smell of tar, of summer, and of sweaty feet. Kat sits beside me. He wants to talk. To-day we have been practising saluting because Tjaden failed to salute a major. Kat can't get it out of his head. "You see, we are losing the war because we can salute too well," he says. Kropp stalks up, with his breeches rolled up and his feet bare. He lays out his washed socks to dry on the grass. Kat turns his eyes to heaven, lets off a mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue. At the same time they lay a bottle of beer on the result of an air-fight that's going on above us. Katczinsky won't budge from the opinion, which as an old Front-hog, he rhymes: Give 'em all the same grub and all the same pay And the war would be over and done in a day. Kropp on the other hand is a thinker. He proposes that a declaration of war should be a kind of popular festival with entrance-tickets and bands, like a bull fight. Then in the arena the ministers and generals of
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in a year something eatable were to be had in some one place only, within that hour, as if moved by a vision, he would put on his cap, go out and walk directly there, as though following a compass, and find it. He finds everything--if it is cold, a small stove and wood, hay and straw, a table and chairs--but above all food. It is uncanny; one would think he conjured it out of the air. His masterpiece was four boxes of lobsters. Admittedly we would rather have had a good beef steak. * * We have settled ourselves on the sunny side of the hut. There is a smell of tar, of summer, and of sweaty feet. Kat sits beside me. He wants to talk. To-day we have been practising saluting because Tjaden failed to salute a major. Kat can't get it out of his head. "You see, we are losing the war because we can salute too well," he says. Kropp stalks up, with his breeches rolled up and his feet bare. He lays out his washed socks to dry on the grass. Kat turns his eyes to heaven, lets off a mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue. At the same time they lay a bottle of beer on the result of an air-fight that's going on above us. Katczinsky won't budge from the opinion, which as an old Front-hog, he rhymes: Give 'em all the same grub and all the same pay And the war would be over and done in a day. Kropp on the other hand is a thinker. He proposes that a declaration of war should be a kind of popular festival with entrance-tickets and bands, like a bull fight. Then in the arena the ministers and generals of the two countries, dressed in bathing-drawers and armed with clubs, can have it out among themselves. Whoever survives, his country wins. That would be much simpler and more just than this arrangement, where the wrong people do the fighting. The subject is dropped. Then the conversation turns to drill. A picture comes before me. Burning midday in the barrack-yard. The heat hangs over the square. The barracks are deserted. Everything sleeps. All one hears is the drummers practising; they have installed themselves anywhere and practise brokenly, dully, monotonously. What a concord! Midday heat, barrack-square, and drummers beating! The windows of
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feels the bread. "Real bread, by God! and still hot too!" Kat gives no explanation. He has the bread, the rest doesn't matter. I'm sure that if he were planted down in the middle of the desert, in half an hour he would have gathered together a supper of roast meat, dates, and wine. "Cut some wood," he says curtly to Haie. Then he hauls out a frying-pan from under his coat, and a handful of salt as well as a lump of fat from his pocket. He has thought of everything. Haie makes a fire on the floor. It lights up the empty room of the factory. We climb out of bed. The artilleryman hesitates. He wonders whether to praise Kat and so perhaps gain a little for himself. But Katczinsky doesn't even see him, he might as well be thin air. He goes off cursing. Kat knows the way to roast horse-flesh so that it's tender. It shouldn't be put straight into the pan, that makes it tough. It should be boiled first in a little water. With our knives we squat round in a circle and fill our bellies. That is Kat. If for but one hour in a year something eatable were to be had in some one place only, within that hour, as if moved by a vision, he would put on his cap, go out and walk directly there, as though following a compass, and find it. He finds everything--if it is cold, a small stove and wood, hay and straw, a table and chairs--but above all food. It is uncanny; one would think he conjured it out of the air. His masterpiece was four boxes of lobsters. Admittedly we would rather have had a good beef steak. * * We have settled ourselves on the sunny side of the hut. There is a smell of tar, of summer, and of sweaty feet. Kat sits beside me. He wants to talk. To-day we have been practising saluting because Tjaden failed to salute a major. Kat can't get it out of his head. "You see, we are losing the war because we can salute too well," he says. Kropp stalks up, with his breeches rolled up and his feet bare. He lays out his washed socks to dry on the grass. Kat turns his eyes to heaven, lets off a mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue. At the same time they lay a bottle of beer on the result of an air-fight that's going on above us. Katczinsky won't budge from the opinion, which as an old Front-hog, he rhymes: Give 'em all the same grub and all the same pay And the war would be over and done in a day. Kropp on the other hand is a thinker. He proposes that a declaration of war should be a kind of popular festival with entrance-tickets and bands, like a bull fight. Then in the arena the ministers and generals of the two countries, dressed in bathing-drawers and armed with clubs, can have it out among themselves. Whoever survives, his country wins. That would be much simpler and more just than this arrangement, where the wrong people do the fighting. The subject is dropped. Then the conversation turns to drill. A picture comes before me. Burning midday in the barrack-yard. The heat hangs over the square. The barracks are deserted. Everything sleeps. All one hears is the drummers practising; they have installed themselves anywhere and practise brokenly, dully, monotonously. What a concord! Midday heat, barrack-square, and drummers beating! The windows of the barracks are empty and dark. From some of them trousers are hanging to dry. The rooms are cool and one looks toward them longingly. O dark, musty platoon huts, with the iron bedsteads, the chequered bedding, the lockers and the stools! Even you can become the object of desire; out here you have a faint resemblance to home; your rooms, full of the smell of stale food, sleep, smoke, and clothes! Katczinsky paints it all in lively colours. What would we not give to be able to go back to it! But we must not pursue that line of thought any further. Those early morning hours of instruction-- "What are the parts of the 98 rifle?" --the midday hours of physical training-- "Pianist, forward! By the right, quick march. Report to the cook-house for potato-peeling." We indulge in reminiscences. Kropp laughs suddenly and says: "Change at Löhne!" That was our corporal's favourite game. Löhne is a railway junction. In order that our fellows going on leave shouldn't get lost there, Himmelstoss used to practise the change in the barrack-room. We had to learn that at Löhne, to reach the branch-line, we must pass through a subway. The beds represented
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spot, a sorry hole, that has been eaten out to the very walls. We are quartered in a small dark factory adapted to the purpose. There are beds in it, or rather bunks--a couple of wooden beams over which wire netting is stretched. Wire netting is hard. And there's nothing to put on it. Our waterproof sheets are too thin. We use our blankets to cover ourselves. Kat looks at the place and then says to Haie Westhus: "Come with me." They go off to explore. Half an hour later they are back again with arms full of straw. Kat has found a horse-box with straw in it. Now we might sleep if we weren't so terribly hungry. Kropp asks an artilleryman who has been some time in this neighbourhood: "Is there a canteen anywhere abouts?" "Is there a what?" he laughs. "There's nothing to be had here. You won't find so much as a crust of bread here." "Aren't there any inhabitants here at all then?" He spits. "Yes, a couple. But they mostly loaf round the cook house and beg." "That's a bad business!--Then we'll have to pull in our belts and wait till the rations come up in the morning." But I see Kat has put on his cap. "Where to, Kat?" I ask. "Just to explore the place a bit." He strolls off. The artilleryman grins scornfully. "Let him explore! But don't be too hopeful about it." Disappointed we lie down and consider whether we couldn't have a go at the iron rations. But it's too risky; so we try to get a wink of sleep. Kropp divides a cigarette and hands me half. Tjaden gives an account of his national dish--broad-beans and bacon. He despises it when not flavoured with bog-myrtle, and, "for God's sake, let it all be cooked together, not the potatoes, the beans, and the bacon separately." Someone growls that he will pound Tjaden into bog-myrtle if he doesn't shut up. Then all becomes quiet in the big room--only the candles flickering from the necks of a couple of bottles and the artilleryman spitting every now and then. We stir a bit as the door opens and Kat appears. I think I must be dreaming; he has two loaves of bread under his arm and a blood-stained sandbag full of horse-flesh in his hand. The artilleryman's pipe drops from his mouth. He feels the bread. "Real bread, by God! and still hot too!" Kat gives no explanation. He has the bread, the rest doesn't matter. I'm sure that if he were planted down in the middle of the desert, in half an hour he would have gathered together a supper of roast meat, dates, and wine. "Cut some wood," he says curtly to Haie. Then he hauls out a frying-pan from under his coat, and a handful of salt as well as a lump of fat from his pocket. He has thought of everything. Haie makes a fire on the floor. It lights up the empty room of the factory. We climb out of bed. The artilleryman hesitates. He wonders whether to praise Kat and so perhaps gain a little for himself. But Katczinsky doesn't even see him, he might as well be thin air. He goes off cursing. Kat knows the way to roast horse-flesh so that it's tender. It shouldn't be put straight into the pan, that makes it tough. It should be boiled first in a little water. With our knives we squat round in a circle and fill our bellies. That is Kat. If for but one hour in a year something eatable were to be had in some one place only, within that hour, as if moved by a vision, he would put on his cap, go out and walk directly there, as though following a compass, and find it. He finds everything--if it is cold, a small stove and wood, hay and straw, a table and chairs--but above all food. It is uncanny; one would think he conjured it out of the air. His masterpiece was four boxes of lobsters. Admittedly we would rather have had a good beef steak. * * We have settled ourselves on the sunny side of the hut. There is a smell of tar, of summer, and of sweaty feet. Kat sits beside me. He wants to talk. To-day we have been practising saluting because Tjaden failed to salute a major. Kat can't get it out of his head. "You see, we are losing the war because we can salute too well," he says. Kropp stalks up, with his breeches rolled up and his feet bare. He lays out his washed socks to dry on the grass. Kat turns his eyes to heaven, lets off a mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue. At the same time they lay a bottle of beer on the result of an air-fight that's going on above us. Katczinsky won't budge from the opinion, which as an old Front-hog, he rhymes: Give 'em all the same grub and all the same pay And the war would be over and done in a day. Kropp on the other hand is a thinker. He proposes that a declaration of war should be a kind of popular festival with entrance-tickets and bands, like a bull fight. Then in the arena the ministers and generals of the two countries, dressed in bathing-drawers and armed with clubs, can have it out among themselves. Whoever survives, his country wins. That would be much simpler and more just than this arrangement, where the wrong people do the fighting. The subject is dropped. Then the conversation turns to drill. A picture comes before me. Burning midday in the barrack-yard. The heat hangs over the square. The barracks are deserted. Everything sleeps. All one hears is the drummers practising; they have installed themselves anywhere and practise brokenly, dully, monotonously. What a concord! Midday heat, barrack-square, and drummers beating! The windows of the barracks are empty and dark. From some of them trousers are hanging to dry. The rooms are cool and one looks toward them longingly. O dark, musty platoon huts, with the iron bedsteads, the chequered bedding, the lockers and the stools! Even you can become the object of desire; out here you have a faint resemblance to home; your rooms, full of the smell of stale food, sleep, smoke, and clothes! Katczinsky paints it all in lively colours. What would we not give to be able to go back to it! But we must not pursue that line of thought any further. Those early morning hours of instruction-- "What are the parts of the 98 rifle?" --the midday hours of physical training-- "Pianist, forward! By the right, quick march. Report to the cook-house for potato-peeling." We indulge in reminiscences. Kropp laughs suddenly and says: "Change at Löhne!" That was our corporal's favourite game. Löhne is a railway junction. In order that our fellows going on leave shouldn't get lost there, Himmelstoss used to practise the change in the barrack-room. We had to learn that at Löhne, to reach the branch-line, we must pass through a subway. The beds represented the subway and each man stood at attention on the left side of his bed. Then came the command: "Change at Löhne!" and like lightning everyone scrambled under the bed to the opposite side. We practised this for a whole hour---- Meanwhile the German aeroplane has been shot down. Like a comet it bursts into a streamer of smoke and falls headlong. Kropp has lost the bottle of beer. Disgruntled he counts out the money from his wallet. "Surely Himmelstoss was a very different fellow as a postman," say I, after Albert's disappointment has subsided. "Then how does it come that he's such a bully as a drill-sergeant?" The question revives Kropp, more particularly as he hears there's no more beer in the canteen. "It's not only Himmelstoss, there are lots of them. As sure as they get a stripe or a star they become different men, just as though they'd swallowed concrete." "That's the uniform," I suggest. "Roughly speaking it is," says Kat, and prepares for a long speech; "but the root of the matter lies elsewhere. For instance, if you train a dog to eat potatoes and then afterwards put a piece of meat in front of him, he'll snap at it, it's his nature. And if you give a man a little bit of authority he behaves just the same way, he snaps at it too. The things are precisely the same. In himself man is essentially a beast, only he butters it over like a slice of bread with a little decorum. The army is based on that; one man must always have power over the other. The mischief is merely that each one has much too much power. A non-com. can torment a private, a lieutenant a non-com., a captain a lieutenant, until he goes mad. And because they know they can, they all soon acquire the habit more or less. Take a simple case: we are marching back from the parade-ground dog-tired. Then comes the order to sing. We are glad enough to be able to trail arms but we sing spiritlessly. At once the company is turned about and has to do another hour's drill as punishment. On the march back the order to sing is given again, and once more we start. Now what's the use of all that? It's simply that the company commander's head has been turned by having so
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to explore the place a bit." He strolls off. The artilleryman grins scornfully. "Let him explore! But don't be too hopeful about it." Disappointed we lie down and consider whether we couldn't have a go at the iron rations. But it's too risky; so we try to get a wink of sleep. Kropp divides a cigarette and hands me half. Tjaden gives an account of his national dish--broad-beans and bacon. He despises it when not flavoured with bog-myrtle, and, "for God's sake, let it all be cooked together, not the potatoes, the beans, and the bacon separately." Someone growls that he will pound Tjaden into bog-myrtle if he doesn't shut up. Then all becomes quiet in the big room--only the candles flickering from the necks of a couple of bottles and the artilleryman spitting every now and then. We stir a bit as the door opens and Kat appears. I think I must be dreaming; he has two loaves of bread under his arm and a blood-stained sandbag full of horse-flesh in his hand. The artilleryman's pipe drops from his mouth. He feels the bread. "Real bread, by God! and still hot too!" Kat gives no explanation. He has the bread, the rest doesn't matter. I'm sure that if he were planted down in the middle of the desert, in half an hour he would have gathered together a supper of roast meat, dates, and wine. "Cut some wood," he says curtly to Haie. Then he hauls out a frying-pan from under his coat, and a handful of salt as well as a lump of fat from his pocket. He has thought of everything. Haie makes a fire on the floor. It lights up the empty room of the factory. We climb out of bed. The artilleryman hesitates. He wonders whether to praise Kat and so perhaps gain a little for himself. But Katczinsky doesn't even see him, he might as well be thin air. He goes off cursing. Kat knows the way to roast horse-flesh so that it's tender. It shouldn't be put straight into the pan, that makes it tough. It should be boiled first in a little water. With our knives we squat round in a circle and fill our bellies. That is Kat. If for but one hour in a year something eatable were to be had in some one place only, within that hour, as if moved by a vision, he would put on his cap, go out and walk directly there, as though following a compass, and find it. He finds everything--if it is cold, a small stove and wood, hay and straw, a table and chairs--but above all food. It is uncanny; one would think he conjured it out of the air. His masterpiece was four boxes of lobsters. Admittedly we would rather have had a good beef steak. * * We have settled ourselves on the sunny side of the hut. There is a smell of tar, of summer, and of sweaty feet. Kat sits beside me. He wants to talk. To-day we have been practising saluting because Tjaden failed to salute a major. Kat can't get it out of his head. "You see, we are losing the war because we can salute too well," he says. Kropp stalks up, with his breeches rolled up and his feet bare. He lays out his washed socks to dry on the grass. Kat turns his eyes to heaven, lets off a mighty fart, and says apologetically:<|quote|>"Every little bean must be heard as well as seen."</|quote|>The two begin to argue. At the same time they lay a bottle of beer on the result of an air-fight that's going on above us. Katczinsky won't budge from the opinion, which as an old Front-hog, he rhymes: Give 'em all the same grub and all the same pay And the war would be over and done in a day. Kropp on the other hand is a thinker. He proposes that a declaration of war should be a kind of popular festival with entrance-tickets and bands, like a bull fight. Then in the arena the ministers and generals of the two countries, dressed in bathing-drawers and armed with clubs, can have it out among themselves. Whoever survives, his country wins. That would be much simpler and more just than this arrangement, where the wrong people do the fighting. The subject is dropped. Then the conversation turns to drill. A picture comes before me. Burning midday in the barrack-yard. The heat hangs over the square. The barracks are deserted. Everything sleeps. All one hears is the drummers practising; they have installed themselves anywhere and practise brokenly, dully, monotonously. What a concord! Midday heat, barrack-square, and drummers beating! The windows of the barracks are empty and dark. From some of them trousers are hanging to dry. The rooms are cool and one looks toward them longingly. O dark, musty platoon huts, with the iron bedsteads, the chequered bedding, the lockers and the stools! Even you can become the object of desire; out here you have a faint resemblance to home; your rooms,
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;
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No speaker
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her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected
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who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not
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the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon
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no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move,
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that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?" inquired Fagin. "Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have
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jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?" "To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet." In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?" inquired Fagin. "Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story. Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above. The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately
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him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?" "To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet." In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?" inquired Fagin. "Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story. Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above. The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone. "Why, Nance!" exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, "how pale you are!" "Pale!" echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look steadily at him. "Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?" "Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don't know how long and all," replied the girl carelessly. "Come! Let me get back; that's a dear." With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a "good-night." When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that in which Sikes was awaiting her returned, quickened her pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, she stopped to take breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears. It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts: soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker. If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her arrival had interrupted. It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her behaviour and deportment.
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the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!"<|quote|>he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption;</|quote|>"it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?" inquired Fagin. "Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the
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Oliver Twist
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" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "
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No speaker
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daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And
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you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And he waves his handkerchief.
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time and puts in his spoke in some conversation: " What are you talking about? Eh? Whom? " And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, he asks: " What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And he waves his handkerchief.
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committee, the cook and waiters--know what he likes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfy him, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floor with his stick. As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and puts in his spoke in some conversation: " What are you talking about? Eh? Whom? " And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, he asks: " What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And he waves his handkerchief.
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shouts in his disagreeable voice: " Be so good as to confine yourself to answering my questions! Don't talk so much! " He is solitary. He leads a dreary life; nothing interests him. During all the years he had lived at Dyalizh his love for Kitten had been his one joy, and probably his last. In the evenings he plays _vint_ at the club, and then sits alone at a big table and has supper. Ivan, the oldest and most respectable of the waiters, serves him, hands him Lafitte No. 17, and every one at the club--the members of the committee, the cook and waiters--know what he likes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfy him, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floor with his stick. As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and puts in his spoke in some conversation: " What are you talking about? Eh? Whom? " And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, he asks: " What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And he waves his handkerchief.
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profitable; and when at the Mutual Credit Bank he is told of a house that is for sale, he goes to the house without ceremony, and, marching through all the rooms, regardless of half-dressed women and children who gaze at him in amazement and alarm, he prods at the doors with his stick, and says: " Is that the study? Is that a bedroom? And what's here? " And as he does so he breathes heavily and wipes the sweat from his brow. He has a great deal to do, but still he does not give up his work as district doctor; he is greedy for gain, and he tries to be in all places at once. At Dyalizh and in the town he is called simply " Ionitch ": " Where is Ionitch off to? " or " Should not we call in Ionitch to a consultation? " Probably because his throat is covered with rolls of fat, his voice has changed; it has become thin and sharp. His temper has changed, too: he has grown ill-humoured and irritable. When he sees his patients he is usually out of temper; he impatiently taps the floor with his stick, and shouts in his disagreeable voice: " Be so good as to confine yourself to answering my questions! Don't talk so much! " He is solitary. He leads a dreary life; nothing interests him. During all the years he had lived at Dyalizh his love for Kitten had been his one joy, and probably his last. In the evenings he plays _vint_ at the club, and then sits alone at a big table and has supper. Ivan, the oldest and most respectable of the waiters, serves him, hands him Lafitte No. 17, and every one at the club--the members of the committee, the cook and waiters--know what he likes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfy him, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floor with his stick. As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and puts in his spoke in some conversation: " What are you talking about? Eh? Whom? " And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, he asks: " What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And he waves his handkerchief.
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he saw him off. "It's extremely perpendicular on your part. Well, now, perform!" he added, addressing Pava in the hall. Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with moustaches, threw himself into an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic voice: "Unhappy woman, die!" All this irritated Startsev. Getting into his carriage, and looking at the dark house and garden which had once been so precious and so dear, he thought of everything at once--Vera Iosifovna's novels and Kitten's noisy playing, and Ivan Petrovitch's jokes and Pava's tragic posturing, and thought if the most talented people in the town were so futile, what must the town be? Three days later Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna. "You don't come and see us--why?" she wrote to him. "I am afraid that you have changed towards us. I am afraid, and I am terrified at the very thought of it. Reassure me; come and tell me that everything is well. " I must talk to you.--Your E. I. " * * * * * He read this letter, thought a moment, and said to Pava: " Tell them, my good fellow, that I can't come to-day; I am very busy. Say I will come in three days or so. " But three days passed, a week passed; he still did not go. Happening once to drive past the Turkins' house, he thought he must go in, if only for a moment, but on second thoughts ... did not go in. And he never went to the Turkins' again. V Several more years have passed. Startsev has grown stouter still, has grown corpulent, breathes heavily, and already walks with his head thrown back. When stout and red in the face, he drives with his bells and his team of three horses, and Panteleimon, also stout and red in the face with his thick beefy neck, sits on the box, holding his arms stiffly out before him as though they were made of wood, and shouts to those he meets: " Keep to the ri-i-ight! " it is an impressive picture; one might think it was not a mortal, but some heathen deity in his chariot. He has an immense practice in the town, no time to breathe, and already has an estate and two houses in the town, and he is looking out for a third more profitable; and when at the Mutual Credit Bank he is told of a house that is for sale, he goes to the house without ceremony, and, marching through all the rooms, regardless of half-dressed women and children who gaze at him in amazement and alarm, he prods at the doors with his stick, and says: " Is that the study? Is that a bedroom? And what's here? " And as he does so he breathes heavily and wipes the sweat from his brow. He has a great deal to do, but still he does not give up his work as district doctor; he is greedy for gain, and he tries to be in all places at once. At Dyalizh and in the town he is called simply " Ionitch ": " Where is Ionitch off to? " or " Should not we call in Ionitch to a consultation? " Probably because his throat is covered with rolls of fat, his voice has changed; it has become thin and sharp. His temper has changed, too: he has grown ill-humoured and irritable. When he sees his patients he is usually out of temper; he impatiently taps the floor with his stick, and shouts in his disagreeable voice: " Be so good as to confine yourself to answering my questions! Don't talk so much! " He is solitary. He leads a dreary life; nothing interests him. During all the years he had lived at Dyalizh his love for Kitten had been his one joy, and probably his last. In the evenings he plays _vint_ at the club, and then sits alone at a big table and has supper. Ivan, the oldest and most respectable of the waiters, serves him, hands him Lafitte No. 17, and every one at the club--the members of the committee, the cook and waiters--know what he likes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfy him, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floor with his stick. As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and puts in his spoke in some conversation: " What are you talking about? Eh? Whom? " And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, he asks: " What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And he waves his handkerchief.
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his work as district doctor; he is greedy for gain, and he tries to be in all places at once. At Dyalizh and in the town he is called simply " Ionitch ": " Where is Ionitch off to? " or " Should not we call in Ionitch to a consultation? " Probably because his throat is covered with rolls of fat, his voice has changed; it has become thin and sharp. His temper has changed, too: he has grown ill-humoured and irritable. When he sees his patients he is usually out of temper; he impatiently taps the floor with his stick, and shouts in his disagreeable voice: " Be so good as to confine yourself to answering my questions! Don't talk so much! " He is solitary. He leads a dreary life; nothing interests him. During all the years he had lived at Dyalizh his love for Kitten had been his one joy, and probably his last. In the evenings he plays _vint_ at the club, and then sits alone at a big table and has supper. Ivan, the oldest and most respectable of the waiters, serves him, hands him Lafitte No. 17, and every one at the club--the members of the committee, the cook and waiters--know what he likes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfy him, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floor with his stick. As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and puts in his spoke in some conversation: " What are you talking about? Eh? Whom? " And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, he asks: " What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whose daughter plays on the piano?<|quote|>" That is all that can be said about him. And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is not changed in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes as of old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitors with eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the piano for four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantly ailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. When Ivan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tears as the train starts, and shouts: "</|quote|>Good-bye, if you please. And he waves his handkerchief.
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4)
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said Jem;
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No speaker
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you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine."
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a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow
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there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words
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said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously,
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who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after."
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do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem, "you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back." "Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am." "No offence meant, old chap," said Jem; and then from behind his hand he whispered to Don,-- "Look out, my lad; they mean the boat." "No, we don't," said the Englishman, contemptuously; "if we did we could have it. Why, I've only to give the word, and a hundred fellows would be out in a canoe before you knew where you were. No, my lad, it's peace; and I'm glad of a chance, though I'm happy enough here, to have a talk to some one from the old home. Never was in the west country, I suppose? I'm an Exeter man." "I've been in Exeter often," said Don eagerly; "we're from Bristol." The Englishman waded
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the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish in its beak; "see that, Mas' Don?" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Don impatiently; "why not now?" "Why not now, Mas' Don?" said Jem, scratching his head; "is that what you call a connundydrum?" "Don't be stupid, man. I say, why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only be taking it back." "Ah, they'd preach quite a different sarmon to that," said Jem, shaking his head. "Why, you are never going to turn tail?" "Not I, Mas' Don, when the time comes; but it don't seem to have come yet." "Why, the opportunity is splendid, man." "No, Mas' Don, I don't think so. If we take the boat, 'fore we've gone far they'll ketch sight of us aboard, and send another one to fetch us back, or else make a cock-shy of us with the long gun." "Then let's leave the boat." "And go ashore, and meet our messmates and the captain." "Go in another direction." "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," said Jem, grinning. "Say, Mas' Don, how do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem, "you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back." "Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman fiercely. "I've joined them, and married, and I'm a pakeha Maori and a great chief, and I've often fought for them; but I've never forgotten what I am." "No offence meant, old chap," said Jem; and then from behind his hand he whispered to Don,-- "Look out, my lad; they mean the boat." "No, we don't," said the Englishman, contemptuously; "if we did we could have it. Why, I've only to give the word, and a hundred fellows would be out in a canoe before you knew where you were. No, my lad, it's peace; and I'm glad of a chance, though I'm happy enough here, to have a talk to some one from the old home. Never was in the west country, I suppose? I'm an Exeter man." "I've been in Exeter often," said Don eagerly; "we're from Bristol." The Englishman waded rapidly into the sea, his Maori companion dashing in on the other side of the boat, and Jem and Don seized their pistols. "Didn't I tell you it was peace?" said the Englishman, angrily. "I only wanted to shake hands." "Ho!" said Jem, suspiciously, as their visitor coolly seated himself on the gunwale of the boat, his follower taking the opposite side, so as to preserve the balance. "Enough to make you think we meant wrong," said the Englishman; "but we don't. Got any tobacco, mate?" "Yes," said Jem, producing his bag. "'Tarn't very good. Say, Mas' Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o' real old Charlestown, spun or leaf." "Could you, though?" said the man, filling his pipe. "Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant," said Don. "Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once." "No, no," said Don, hastily; "we did not ran away; we were pressed." "Pressed?" said the Englishman, pausing in the act of striking a light on one of the thwarts of the boat. "You needn't believe unless you like," said Jem, sourly, "but we were; dragged off just as if we were--well, never mind what. Feel here." He bent forward, took the man's hand, and placed it upon the back of his head. "That's a pretty good scar, isn't it? Reg'lar ridge." "Yes; that was an ugly crack, mate." "Well, that's what I got, and a lot beside. Young Mas' Don here, too, was awfully knocked about." "And you stood it?" "Stood it?" said Don, laughing. "How could we help it?" "Made you be sailors, eh, whether you would or no?" "That's it," said Jem. "Well, you can do as you like," said the man; "but I know what I should do if they'd served me so." "Cutoff?" said Jem. "That's it, mate. I wouldn't ha' minded being a sailor, but not be made one whether I liked or no." "You weren't a sailor, were you?" said Don. "I? No; never mind what I was." "Then we had better cut off, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning till his eyes were shut; "and you and me 'll be painted like he is in fast colours, and you shall be a chief, and I'll be your head man." "To be sure,"
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to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem, "you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back." "Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after. "That's neither here nor there, mate," said the man. "There's been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren't the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm." "Not I,"<|quote|>said Jem;</|quote|>"it's no business of mine." "And he isn't the fellow to make trouble," put in Don. "That he isn't," said the man, smiling. "'Sides I'm a Maori chief now, and I've got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?" he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue. "Pah, ha, ha!" roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin. "Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!" cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; "brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?" "Yes," said the Englishman, laughing; "and two hundred more like him." "Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas' Don?" "Ah, it's all very well to laugh," said the Englishman good-humouredly; "but when they mean mischief, it's heads off and a feast." "Eh?" cried Jem. "They'll kill a man, and cook him and eat him after." "Gammon!" "Gammon, eh?" cried the Englishman; and he turned to his savage companion with a word or two. The savage relapsed into his former quiescent state, uttered a loud grunt, and smacked his lips. "And so you do do that sort of thing?" said Jem, grinning. "You look in pretty good condition, mate." "No!" said the Englishman
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Don Lavington
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said Marilla.
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No speaker
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I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the
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got into this fix, but I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and
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green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your
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it's _green!_" Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. "Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?" "I dyed it." "Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do?" "Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I
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Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. "Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's _green!_" Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. "Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?" "I dyed it." "Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do?" "Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it." "Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have dyed it green." "But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black--he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla? I know what
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I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. "No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. "Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's _green!_" Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. "Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?" "I dyed it." "Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do?" "Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it." "Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have dyed it green." "But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black--he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have your word doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect anyone of not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they're not. I have proof now--green hair is proof enough for anybody. But I hadn't then and I believed every word he said _implicitly_." "Who said? Who are you talking about?" "The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him." "Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those Italians in the house! I don't believe in encouraging them to come around at all." "Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered what you told me, and I went out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his things on the step. Besides, he wasn't an Italian--he was a German Jew. He had a big box full of very interesting things and he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his wife and children out from Germany. He spoke so feelingly about them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all at
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and prepare the meal herself against Matthew's return from plowing. "I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner. "She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now." "Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. "No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. "Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's _green!_" Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. "Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?" "I dyed it." "Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do?" "Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it." "Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have dyed it green." "But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black--he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have your word doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect anyone of not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they're not. I have proof now--green hair is proof enough for anybody. But I hadn't then and I believed every word he said _implicitly_." "Who said? Who are you talking about?" "The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him." "Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those Italians in the house! I don't believe in encouraging them to come around at all." "Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered what you told me, and I went out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his things on the step. Besides, he wasn't an Italian--he was a German Jew. He had a big box full of very interesting things and he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his wife and children out from Germany. He spoke so feelingly about them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all at once I saw the bottle of hair dye. The peddler said it was warranted to dye any hair a beautiful raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a trice I saw myself with beautiful raven-black hair and the temptation was irresistible. But the price of the bottle was seventy-five cents and I had only fifty cents left out of my chicken money. I think the peddler had a very kind heart, for he said that, seeing it was me, he'd sell it for fifty cents and that was just giving it away. So I bought it, and as soon as he had gone I came up here and applied it with an old hairbrush as the directions said. I used up the whole bottle, and oh, Marilla, when I saw the dreadful color it turned my hair I repented of being wicked, I can tell you. And I've been repenting ever since." "Well, I hope you'll repent to good purpose," said Marilla severely, "and that you've got your eyes opened to where your vanity has led you, Anne. Goodness knows what's to be done. I suppose the first thing is to give your hair a good washing and see if that will do any good." Accordingly, Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it vigorously with soap and water, but for all the difference it made she might as well have been scouring its original red. The peddler had certainly spoken the truth when he declared that the dye wouldn't wash off, however his veracity might be impeached in other respects. "Oh, Marilla, what shall I do?" questioned Anne in tears. "I can never live this down. People have pretty well forgotten my other mistakes--the liniment cake and setting Diana drunk and flying into a temper with Mrs. Lynde. But they'll never forget this. They will think I am not respectable. Oh, Marilla," ?what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.' "That is poetry, but it is true. And oh, how Josie Pye will laugh! Marilla, I _cannot_ face Josie Pye. I am the unhappiest girl in Prince Edward Island." Anne's unhappiness continued for a week. During that time she went nowhere and shampooed her hair every day. Diana alone of outsiders knew the fatal secret, but she promised solemnly never to tell, and it may be stated here and now that she kept her word. At the
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has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's a great hand at explaining." "She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you." It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. "Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?" "No," was the muffled reply. "Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes. "No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me." "Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?" Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. "Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange appearance. "Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's _green!_" Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's hair at that moment. "Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am." "I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out,"<|quote|>said Marilla.</|quote|>"Come right down to the kitchen--it's too cold up here--and tell me just what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?" "I dyed it." "Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing to do?" "Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it." "Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while to dye my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have dyed it green." "But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly. "If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black--he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have your word doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect anyone of not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they're not. I have proof now--green hair is proof enough for anybody. But I hadn't then and I believed every word he said _implicitly_." "Who said? Who are you talking about?" "The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him." "Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those Italians in the house! I don't believe in encouraging them to come around at all." "Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered what you told me, and I went out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his things on the step. Besides, he wasn't an Italian--he was a German Jew. He had a big box full of very interesting things and he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his wife and children out from Germany. He spoke so feelingly about them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all at once I saw the bottle of hair dye. The peddler said it was warranted to dye any hair a beautiful raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a trice
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Anne Of Green Gables
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said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?
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No speaker
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very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to
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numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to go New York with me?"
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of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to go New York with me?" "To New Yawk? What fu'?" Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the _Universe_ had done its work, it demanded the right to crow to its heart's satisfaction. He said only, "You want to see your wife, of course?"
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look. His hair, that had hardly shown a white streak, was as white as Maurice Oakley's own. His erstwhile quick wits were dulled and imbruted. He had lived like an ox, working without inspiration or reward, and he came forth like an ox from his stall. All the higher part of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to go New York with me?" "To New Yawk? What fu'?" Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the _Universe_ had done its work, it demanded the right to crow to its heart's satisfaction. He said only, "You want to see your wife, of course?" Berry had forgotten Fannie, and for the first time his heart thrilled within him at the thought of seeing her again. "I ain't hyeahed f'om my people fu' a long time. I did n't know what had become of 'em. How 's Kit an' Joe?" "They 're all right," was
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at the word that was brought to him now, and he could not understand the strange cordiality of the young white man who met him at the warden's office. Five years of prison life had made a different man of him. He no longer looked to receive kindness from his fellows, and he blinked at it as he blinked at the unwonted brightness of the sun. The lines about his mouth where the smiles used to gather had changed and grown stern with the hopelessness of years. His lips drooped pathetically, and hard treatment had given his eyes a lowering look. His hair, that had hardly shown a white streak, was as white as Maurice Oakley's own. His erstwhile quick wits were dulled and imbruted. He had lived like an ox, working without inspiration or reward, and he came forth like an ox from his stall. All the higher part of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to go New York with me?" "To New Yawk? What fu'?" Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the _Universe_ had done its work, it demanded the right to crow to its heart's satisfaction. He said only, "You want to see your wife, of course?" Berry had forgotten Fannie, and for the first time his heart thrilled within him at the thought of seeing her again. "I ain't hyeahed f'om my people fu' a long time. I did n't know what had become of 'em. How 's Kit an' Joe?" "They 're all right," was the reply. Skaggs could n't tell him, in this the first hour of his freedom. Let him have time to drink the sweetness of that all in. There would be time afterwards to taste all of the bitterness. Once in New York, he found that people wished to see him, some fools, some philanthropists, and a great many reporters. He had to be photographed--all this before he could seek those whom he longed to see. They printed his picture as he was before he went to prison and as he was now, a sort of before-and-after-taking comment, and in the
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at the capital he came into contact with the official red tape. He was told that there were certain forms of procedure, and certain times for certain things, but he hammered persistently away, the murmurings behind him grew louder, while from his sanctum the editor of the _Universe_ thundered away against oppression and high-handed tyranny. Other papers took it up and asked why this man should be despoiled of his liberty any longer? And when it was replied that the man had been convicted, and that the wheels of justice could not be stopped or turned back by the letter of a romantic artist or the ravings of a madman, there was a mighty outcry against the farce of justice that had been played out in this man's case. The trial was reviewed; the evidence again brought up and examined. The dignity of the State was threatened. At this time the State did the one thing necessary to save its tottering reputation. It would not surrender, but it capitulated, and Berry Hamilton was pardoned. Berry heard the news with surprise and a half-bitter joy. He had long ago lost hope that justice would ever be done to him. He marvelled at the word that was brought to him now, and he could not understand the strange cordiality of the young white man who met him at the warden's office. Five years of prison life had made a different man of him. He no longer looked to receive kindness from his fellows, and he blinked at it as he blinked at the unwonted brightness of the sun. The lines about his mouth where the smiles used to gather had changed and grown stern with the hopelessness of years. His lips drooped pathetically, and hard treatment had given his eyes a lowering look. His hair, that had hardly shown a white streak, was as white as Maurice Oakley's own. His erstwhile quick wits were dulled and imbruted. He had lived like an ox, working without inspiration or reward, and he came forth like an ox from his stall. All the higher part of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to go New York with me?" "To New Yawk? What fu'?" Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the _Universe_ had done its work, it demanded the right to crow to its heart's satisfaction. He said only, "You want to see your wife, of course?" Berry had forgotten Fannie, and for the first time his heart thrilled within him at the thought of seeing her again. "I ain't hyeahed f'om my people fu' a long time. I did n't know what had become of 'em. How 's Kit an' Joe?" "They 're all right," was the reply. Skaggs could n't tell him, in this the first hour of his freedom. Let him have time to drink the sweetness of that all in. There would be time afterwards to taste all of the bitterness. Once in New York, he found that people wished to see him, some fools, some philanthropists, and a great many reporters. He had to be photographed--all this before he could seek those whom he longed to see. They printed his picture as he was before he went to prison and as he was now, a sort of before-and-after-taking comment, and in the morning that it all appeared, when the _Universe_ spread itself to tell the public what it had done and how it had done it, they gave him his wife's address. It would be better, they thought, for her to tell him herself all that happened. No one of them was brave enough to stand to look in his eyes when he asked for his son and daughter, and they shifted their responsibility by pretending to themselves that they were doing it for his own good: that the blow would fall more gently upon him coming from her who had been his wife. Berry took the address and inquired his way timidly, hesitatingly, but with a swelling heart, to the door of the flat where Fannie lived. XVIII WHAT BERRY FOUND Had not Berry's years of prison life made him forget what little he knew of reading, he might have read the name Gibson on the door-plate where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence,
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Maurice Oakley there were sad times. From the moment that the master of the house had fallen to the floor in impotent fear and madness there had been no peace within his doors. At first his wife had tried to control him alone, and had humoured the wild babblings with which he woke from his swoon. But these changed to shrieks and cries and curses, and she was forced to throw open the doors so long closed and call in help. The neighbours and her old friends went to her assistance, and what the reporter's story had not done, the ravings of the man accomplished; for, with a show of matchless cunning, he continually clutched at his breast, laughed, and babbled his secret openly. Even then they would have smothered it in silence, for the honour of one of their best families; but too many ears had heard, and then came the yellow journal bearing all the news in emblazoned headlines. Colonel Saunders was distinctly hurt to think that his confidence had been imposed on, and that he had been instrumental in bringing shame upon a Southern name. "To think, suh," he said generally to the usual assembly of choice spirits,--" "to think of that man's being a reporter, suh, a common, ordinary reporter, and that I sat and talked to him as if he were a gentleman!" "You 're not to be blamed, Colonel," said old Horace Talbot. "You 've done no more than any other gentleman would have done. The trouble is that the average Northerner has no sense of honour, suh, no sense of honour. If this particular man had had, he would have kept still, and everything would have gone on smooth and quiet. Instead of that, a distinguished family is brought to shame, and for what? To give a nigger a few more years of freedom when, likely as not, he don't want it; and Berry Hamilton's life in prison has proved nearer the ideal reached by slavery than anything he has found since emancipation. Why, suhs, I fancy I see him leaving his prison with tears of regret in his eyes." Old Horace was inanely eloquent for an hour over his pet theory. But there were some in the town who thought differently about the matter, and it was their opinions and murmurings that backed up Skaggs and made it easier for him when at the capital he came into contact with the official red tape. He was told that there were certain forms of procedure, and certain times for certain things, but he hammered persistently away, the murmurings behind him grew louder, while from his sanctum the editor of the _Universe_ thundered away against oppression and high-handed tyranny. Other papers took it up and asked why this man should be despoiled of his liberty any longer? And when it was replied that the man had been convicted, and that the wheels of justice could not be stopped or turned back by the letter of a romantic artist or the ravings of a madman, there was a mighty outcry against the farce of justice that had been played out in this man's case. The trial was reviewed; the evidence again brought up and examined. The dignity of the State was threatened. At this time the State did the one thing necessary to save its tottering reputation. It would not surrender, but it capitulated, and Berry Hamilton was pardoned. Berry heard the news with surprise and a half-bitter joy. He had long ago lost hope that justice would ever be done to him. He marvelled at the word that was brought to him now, and he could not understand the strange cordiality of the young white man who met him at the warden's office. Five years of prison life had made a different man of him. He no longer looked to receive kindness from his fellows, and he blinked at it as he blinked at the unwonted brightness of the sun. The lines about his mouth where the smiles used to gather had changed and grown stern with the hopelessness of years. His lips drooped pathetically, and hard treatment had given his eyes a lowering look. His hair, that had hardly shown a white streak, was as white as Maurice Oakley's own. His erstwhile quick wits were dulled and imbruted. He had lived like an ox, working without inspiration or reward, and he came forth like an ox from his stall. All the higher part of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to go New York with me?" "To New Yawk? What fu'?" Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the _Universe_ had done its work, it demanded the right to crow to its heart's satisfaction. He said only, "You want to see your wife, of course?" Berry had forgotten Fannie, and for the first time his heart thrilled within him at the thought of seeing her again. "I ain't hyeahed f'om my people fu' a long time. I did n't know what had become of 'em. How 's Kit an' Joe?" "They 're all right," was the reply. Skaggs could n't tell him, in this the first hour of his freedom. Let him have time to drink the sweetness of that all in. There would be time afterwards to taste all of the bitterness. Once in New York, he found that people wished to see him, some fools, some philanthropists, and a great many reporters. He had to be photographed--all this before he could seek those whom he longed to see. They printed his picture as he was before he went to prison and as he was now, a sort of before-and-after-taking comment, and in the morning that it all appeared, when the _Universe_ spread itself to tell the public what it had done and how it had done it, they gave him his wife's address. It would be better, they thought, for her to tell him herself all that happened. No one of them was brave enough to stand to look in his eyes when he asked for his son and daughter, and they shifted their responsibility by pretending to themselves that they were doing it for his own good: that the blow would fall more gently upon him coming from her who had been his wife. Berry took the address and inquired his way timidly, hesitatingly, but with a swelling heart, to the door of the flat where Fannie lived. XVIII WHAT BERRY FOUND Had not Berry's years of prison life made him forget what little he knew of reading, he might have read the name Gibson on the door-plate where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence, hoping that Berry might be spared the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?" She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way. "Yes, yes, Be'y, I knows you. Come in." She led him through the passage-way and into her room, he following with a sudden sinking at his heart. This was not the reception he had expected from Fannie. When they were within the room he turned and held out his arms to her again, but she did not notice them. "Why, is you 'shamed o' me?" he asked brokenly. "'Shamed? No! Oh, Be'y," and she sank into a chair and began rocking to and fro in her helpless grief. "What 's de mattah, Fannie? Ain't you glad to see me?" "Yes, yes, but you don't know nothin', do you? Dey lef' me to tell you?" "Lef' you to tell me? What 's de mattah? Is Joe or Kit daid? Tell me." "No, not daid. Kit dances on de stage fu' a livin', an', Be'y, she ain't de gal she ust to be. Joe--Joe--Joe--he 's in pen'tentiary fu' killin' a ooman." Berry started forward with a cry, "My Gawd! my Gawd! my little gal! my boy!" "Dat ain't all," she went on dully, as if reciting a rote lesson; "I ain't yo' wife no mo'. I 's ma'ied ag'in. Oh Be'y, Be'y, don't look at me lak dat. I could n't he'p it. Kit an' Joe lef' me, an' dey said de pen'tentiary divo'ced you an' me, an' dat you 'd nevah come out nohow. Don't look at me lak dat, Be'y." "You ain't my wife no mo'? Hit 's a lie, a damn lie! You is my wife. I 's a innocent man. No pen'tentiay kin tek you erway f'om me. Hit 's enough what dey 've done to my chillen." He rushed forward and seized her by the arm. "Dey sha'n't do no mo', by Gawd! dey sha'n't, I say!" His voice had risen to a fierce roar, like that of a hurt beast, and he shook her by the arm as he spoke. "Oh, don't, Be'y, don't, you hu't me. I could n't he'p
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wheels of justice could not be stopped or turned back by the letter of a romantic artist or the ravings of a madman, there was a mighty outcry against the farce of justice that had been played out in this man's case. The trial was reviewed; the evidence again brought up and examined. The dignity of the State was threatened. At this time the State did the one thing necessary to save its tottering reputation. It would not surrender, but it capitulated, and Berry Hamilton was pardoned. Berry heard the news with surprise and a half-bitter joy. He had long ago lost hope that justice would ever be done to him. He marvelled at the word that was brought to him now, and he could not understand the strange cordiality of the young white man who met him at the warden's office. Five years of prison life had made a different man of him. He no longer looked to receive kindness from his fellows, and he blinked at it as he blinked at the unwonted brightness of the sun. The lines about his mouth where the smiles used to gather had changed and grown stern with the hopelessness of years. His lips drooped pathetically, and hard treatment had given his eyes a lowering look. His hair, that had hardly shown a white streak, was as white as Maurice Oakley's own. His erstwhile quick wits were dulled and imbruted. He had lived like an ox, working without inspiration or reward, and he came forth like an ox from his stall. All the higher part of him he had left behind, dropping it off day after day through the wearisome years. He had put behind him the Berry Hamilton that laughed and joked and sang and believed, for even his faith had become only a numbed fancy. "This is a very happy occasion, Mr. Hamilton,"<|quote|>said Skaggs, shaking his hand heartily. Berry did not answer. What had this slim, glib young man to do with him? What had any white man to do with him after what he had suffered at their hands?</|quote|>"You know you are to go New York with me?" "To New Yawk? What fu'?" Skaggs did not tell him that, now that the _Universe_ had done its work, it demanded the right to crow to its heart's satisfaction. He said only, "You want to see your wife, of course?" Berry had forgotten Fannie, and for the first time his heart thrilled within him at the thought of seeing her again. "I ain't hyeahed f'om my people fu' a long time. I did n't know what had become of 'em. How 's Kit an' Joe?" "They 're all right," was the reply. Skaggs could n't tell him, in this the first hour of his freedom. Let him have time to drink the sweetness of that all in. There would be time afterwards to taste all of the bitterness. Once in New York, he found that people wished to see him, some fools, some philanthropists, and a great many reporters. He had to be photographed--all this before he could seek those whom he longed to see. They printed his picture as he was before he went to prison and as he was now, a sort of before-and-after-taking comment, and in the morning that it all appeared, when the _Universe_ spread itself to tell the public what it had done and how it had done it, they gave him his wife's address. It would be better, they thought, for her to tell him herself all that happened. No one of them was brave enough to stand to look in his eyes when he asked for his son and daughter, and they shifted their responsibility by pretending to themselves that they were doing it for his own good: that the blow would fall more gently upon him coming from her who had been his wife. Berry took the address and inquired his way timidly, hesitatingly, but with a swelling heart, to the door of the flat where Fannie lived. XVIII WHAT BERRY FOUND Had not Berry's years of prison life made him forget what little he knew of reading, he might have read the name Gibson on the door-plate where they told him to ring for his wife. But he knew nothing of what awaited him as he confidently pulled the bell. Fannie herself came to the door. The news the papers held had not escaped her, but she had suffered in silence, hoping that Berry might be spared the pain of finding her. Now he stood before her, and she knew him at a glance, in spite of his haggard countenance. "Fannie," he said, holding out his arms to her, and all of the pain and pathos of long yearning was in his voice, "don't you know me?" She shrank away from him, back in the hall-way. "Yes,
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The Sport Of The Gods
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"Presently he calmed a little."
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The Invisible Man
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the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an
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amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He
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I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When
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immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on
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were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up
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and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the
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the house door open and I slipped into the inner room." "It was a queer little room, poorly furnished and with a number of big masks in the corner. On the table was his belated breakfast, and it was a confoundedly exasperating thing for me, Kemp, to have to sniff his coffee and stand watching while he came in and resumed his meal. And his table manners were irritating. Three doors opened into the little room, one going upstairs and one down, but they were all shut. I could not get out of the room while he was there; I could scarcely move because of his alertness, and there was a draught down my back. Twice I strangled a sneeze just in time." "The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but for all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done his eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly crockery on the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all the crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of things after him. His burden prevented his shutting the door behind him as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting doors and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash up, and then, finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being cold on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It was burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put on a little coal. The noise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He peered about the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that examination, he scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway and took a final inspection before he went down." "I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and opened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him." "On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening." I could have sworn, "he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other appliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish again. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque but not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy subsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback s boots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were three sovereigns and about thirty shillings worth of
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me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room."<|quote|>"Presently he calmed a little."</|quote|>Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The
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The Invisible Man
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"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"
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William Rodney
|
a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names
|
t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra
|
be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up. "Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."
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some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up. "Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out." He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
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Denham. With a set expression which showed what an effort she was making, Katharine encountered their eyes, and saying, "We re not going to interrupt you," she led Denham behind the curtain which hung in front of the room with the relics. This refuge was none of her willing, but confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up. "Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out." He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never
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reason to comfort themselves with the thought that matters were hastening to a crisis. These absences of Katharine s, moreover, left them exposed to interruptions which almost destroyed their pleasure in being alone together. The rainy evening made it impossible to go out; and, indeed, according to William s code, it was considerably more damning to be seen out of doors than surprised within. They were so much at the mercy of bells and doors that they could hardly talk of Macaulay with any conviction, and William preferred to defer the second act of his tragedy until another day. Under these circumstances Cassandra showed herself at her best. She sympathized with William s anxieties and did her utmost to share them; but still, to be alone together, to be running risks together, to be partners in the wonderful conspiracy, was to her so enthralling that she was always forgetting discretion, breaking out into exclamations and admirations which finally made William believe that, although deplorable and upsetting, the situation was not without its sweetness. When the door did open, he started, but braved the forthcoming revelation. It was not Mrs. Milvain, however, but Katharine herself who entered, closely followed by Ralph Denham. With a set expression which showed what an effort she was making, Katharine encountered their eyes, and saying, "We re not going to interrupt you," she led Denham behind the curtain which hung in front of the room with the relics. This refuge was none of her willing, but confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up. "Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out." He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact nature of the program that night, it fulfilled the highest purposes of dramatic art, so far, at least, as four of the audience were concerned. No doubt the actors and the authors would have been surprised to learn in what shape their efforts reached those particular eyes and ears; but they could not have denied that the effect as a whole was tremendous. The hall resounded with brass and strings, alternately of enormous pomp and majesty, and then of sweetest lamentation. The reds and creams of the background, the lyres and harps and urns and skulls, the protuberances of plaster, the fringes of scarlet plush, the sinking and blazing of innumerable electric lights, could scarcely have been surpassed for decorative effect by any craftsman of the ancient or modern world. Then there was the audience itself, bare-shouldered, tufted and garlanded in the stalls, decorous but festal in the balconies, and
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any questions next day. If cross-examined she might have said that nobody spoke to her. She worked a little, wrote a little, ordered the dinner, and sat, for longer than she knew, with her head on her hand piercing whatever lay before her, whether it was a letter or a dictionary, as if it were a film upon the deep prospects that revealed themselves to her kindling and brooding eyes. She rose once, and going to the bookcase, took out her father s Greek dictionary and spread the sacred pages of symbols and figures before her. She smoothed the sheets with a mixture of affectionate amusement and hope. Would other eyes look on them with her one day? The thought, long intolerable, was now just bearable. She was quite unaware of the anxiety with which her movements were watched and her expression scanned. Cassandra was careful not to be caught looking at her, and their conversation was so prosaic that were it not for certain jolts and jerks between the sentences, as if the mind were kept with difficulty to the rails, Mrs. Milvain herself could have detected nothing of a suspicious nature in what she overheard. William, when he came in late that afternoon and found Cassandra alone, had a very serious piece of news to impart. He had just passed Katharine in the street and she had failed to recognize him. "That doesn t matter with me, of course, but suppose it happened with somebody else? What would they think? They would suspect something merely from her expression. She looked she looked" he hesitated "like some one walking in her sleep." To Cassandra the significant thing was that Katharine had gone out without telling her, and she interpreted this to mean that she had gone out to meet Ralph Denham. But to her surprise William drew no comfort from this probability. "Once throw conventions aside," he began, "once do the things that people don t do" and the fact that you are going to meet a young man is no longer proof of anything, except, indeed, that people will talk. Cassandra saw, not without a pang of jealousy, that he was extremely solicitous that people should not talk about Katharine, as if his interest in her were still proprietary rather than friendly. As they were both ignorant of Ralph s visit the night before they had not that reason to comfort themselves with the thought that matters were hastening to a crisis. These absences of Katharine s, moreover, left them exposed to interruptions which almost destroyed their pleasure in being alone together. The rainy evening made it impossible to go out; and, indeed, according to William s code, it was considerably more damning to be seen out of doors than surprised within. They were so much at the mercy of bells and doors that they could hardly talk of Macaulay with any conviction, and William preferred to defer the second act of his tragedy until another day. Under these circumstances Cassandra showed herself at her best. She sympathized with William s anxieties and did her utmost to share them; but still, to be alone together, to be running risks together, to be partners in the wonderful conspiracy, was to her so enthralling that she was always forgetting discretion, breaking out into exclamations and admirations which finally made William believe that, although deplorable and upsetting, the situation was not without its sweetness. When the door did open, he started, but braved the forthcoming revelation. It was not Mrs. Milvain, however, but Katharine herself who entered, closely followed by Ralph Denham. With a set expression which showed what an effort she was making, Katharine encountered their eyes, and saying, "We re not going to interrupt you," she led Denham behind the curtain which hung in front of the room with the relics. This refuge was none of her willing, but confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up. "Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out." He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact nature of the program that night, it fulfilled the highest purposes of dramatic art, so far, at least, as four of the audience were concerned. No doubt the actors and the authors would have been surprised to learn in what shape their efforts reached those particular eyes and ears; but they could not have denied that the effect as a whole was tremendous. The hall resounded with brass and strings, alternately of enormous pomp and majesty, and then of sweetest lamentation. The reds and creams of the background, the lyres and harps and urns and skulls, the protuberances of plaster, the fringes of scarlet plush, the sinking and blazing of innumerable electric lights, could scarcely have been surpassed for decorative effect by any craftsman of the ancient or modern world. Then there was the audience itself, bare-shouldered, tufted and garlanded in the stalls, decorous but festal in the balconies, and frankly fit for daylight and street life in the galleries. But, however they differed when looked at separately, they shared the same huge, lovable nature in the bulk, which murmured and swayed and quivered all the time the dancing and juggling and love-making went on in front of it, slowly laughed and reluctantly left off laughing, and applauded with a helter-skelter generosity which sometimes became unanimous and overwhelming. Once William saw Katharine leaning forward and clapping her hands with an abandonment that startled him. Her laugh rang out with the laughter of the audience. For a second he was puzzled, as if this laughter disclosed something that he had never suspected in her. But then Cassandra s face caught his eye, gazing with astonishment at the buffoon, not laughing, too deeply intent and surprised to laugh at what she saw, and for some moments he watched her as if she were a child. The performance came to an end, the illusion dying out first here and then there, as some rose to put on their coats, others stood upright to salute "God Save the King," the musicians folded their music and encased their instruments, and the lights sank one by one until the house was empty, silent, and full of great shadows. Looking back over her shoulder as she followed Ralph through the swing doors, Cassandra marveled to see how the stage was already entirely without romance. But, she wondered, did they really cover all the seats in brown holland every night? The success of this entertainment was such that before they separated another expedition had been planned for the next day. The next day was Saturday; therefore both William and Ralph were free to devote the whole afternoon to an expedition to Greenwich, which Cassandra had never seen, and Katharine confused with Dulwich. On this occasion Ralph was their guide. He brought them without accident to Greenwich. What exigencies of state or fantasies of imagination first gave birth to the cluster of pleasant places by which London is surrounded is matter of indifference now that they have adapted themselves so admirably to the needs of people between the ages of twenty and thirty with Saturday afternoons to spend. Indeed, if ghosts have any interest in the affections of those who succeed them they must reap their richest harvests when the fine weather comes again and the lovers, the sightseers,
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the significant thing was that Katharine had gone out without telling her, and she interpreted this to mean that she had gone out to meet Ralph Denham. But to her surprise William drew no comfort from this probability. "Once throw conventions aside," he began, "once do the things that people don t do" and the fact that you are going to meet a young man is no longer proof of anything, except, indeed, that people will talk. Cassandra saw, not without a pang of jealousy, that he was extremely solicitous that people should not talk about Katharine, as if his interest in her were still proprietary rather than friendly. As they were both ignorant of Ralph s visit the night before they had not that reason to comfort themselves with the thought that matters were hastening to a crisis. These absences of Katharine s, moreover, left them exposed to interruptions which almost destroyed their pleasure in being alone together. The rainy evening made it impossible to go out; and, indeed, according to William s code, it was considerably more damning to be seen out of doors than surprised within. They were so much at the mercy of bells and doors that they could hardly talk of Macaulay with any conviction, and William preferred to defer the second act of his tragedy until another day. Under these circumstances Cassandra showed herself at her best. She sympathized with William s anxieties and did her utmost to share them; but still, to be alone together, to be running risks together, to be partners in the wonderful conspiracy, was to her so enthralling that she was always forgetting discretion, breaking out into exclamations and admirations which finally made William believe that, although deplorable and upsetting, the situation was not without its sweetness. When the door did open, he started, but braved the forthcoming revelation. It was not Mrs. Milvain, however, but Katharine herself who entered, closely followed by Ralph Denham. With a set expression which showed what an effort she was making, Katharine encountered their eyes, and saying, "We re not going to interrupt you," she led Denham behind the curtain which hung in front of the room with the relics. This refuge was none of her willing, but confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded.<|quote|>"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?"</|quote|>The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up. "Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out." He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact nature of the program that night, it fulfilled the highest purposes of dramatic art, so far, at least, as four of the audience were concerned. No doubt the actors and the authors would have been surprised to learn in what shape their efforts reached those particular eyes and ears; but they could not have denied that the effect as a whole was tremendous. The hall resounded with brass and strings, alternately of enormous pomp and majesty, and then of sweetest lamentation. The reds and creams of the background, the lyres and harps and urns and skulls, the protuberances of plaster, the fringes of scarlet plush, the sinking and blazing of innumerable electric lights, could scarcely have been surpassed for decorative effect by any craftsman of the ancient or modern world. Then there was the audience itself, bare-shouldered, tufted and garlanded in the stalls, decorous but festal in the balconies, and frankly fit for daylight and street life in the galleries. But, however they differed when looked at separately, they shared the same huge, lovable nature in the bulk, which murmured and swayed and quivered all the time the dancing and juggling and love-making went on in front of it, slowly laughed and reluctantly left off laughing, and applauded with a helter-skelter generosity which sometimes became unanimous and overwhelming. Once William saw Katharine leaning forward and clapping her hands with an abandonment that startled him. Her laugh rang out with the laughter of the audience. For a second he was puzzled, as if this laughter disclosed something that he had never suspected in her. But then Cassandra s face caught his eye, gazing with astonishment at the buffoon, not laughing, too deeply intent and surprised to laugh at what she saw, and for some moments he watched her as if she were a child. The performance came to an end, the illusion dying out first here and then there, as some rose to put on their coats, others stood upright
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Night And Day
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"One of the sheep got loose,"
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Mr. Gordon
|
mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was
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at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what
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cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going
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Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place."
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sadly. "I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go." "What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw." "I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the
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got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful." Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, "My pakeha." CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. DON SPEAKS OUT. A healthy young constitution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could. "I'm very sorry, Mr Gordon," said Don one evening to the young settler. "Sorry? What for, my lad?" he said. "For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble." "Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in." "Ungrateful!" "Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die." "Oh!" said Don smiling. "Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel." Don smiled sadly. "I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go." "What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw." "I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low,
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been unkind. "Poor Mas' Don! Will he ever get well again?" a voice whispered close to his ear. "Jem!" "Oh, Mas' Don! Oh! Oh! Oh! Thank the great Lord o' mussy. Amen! Amen! Amen!" There was the sound of some one going down heavily upon his knees, a pair of clasped hands rested on Don's breast; and, as he turned his eyes sidewise, he could see the top of Jem's head as the bed shook, and there was the sound of some one sobbing violently, but in a choking, smothered way. "Jem! Is that you? What's the matter?" whispered Don feebly. "And he says, `What's the matter?'" cried Jem, raising his head, and bending over Don. "Dear lad, dear lad; how are you now?" "Quite well, thank you, Jem, only I can't lift up my head." "And don't you try, Mas' Don. Oh, the Lord be thanked! The Lord be thanked!" he muttered. "What should I ha' done?" "Have--have I been ill, Jem?" "I'll, Mas' Don? Why, I thought you was going to die, and no doctor, not even a drop of salts and senny to save your life." "Oh, nonsense, Jem! I never thought of doing such a thing! Ah, I remember now. I felt poorly. My head was bad." "Your head bad? I should think it was bad. Dear lad, what stuff you have been saying." "Have I, Jem? What, since I lay down among the ferns this morning?" "This morning, Mas' Don! Why, it's close upon a month ago." "What?" "That's so, my lad. We come back from cutting wood to find you lying under a tree, and when we got here it was to find poor old `my pakeha' with a shot-hole in him, and his head all beaten about with big clubs." "Oh, Jem!" "That's so, Mas' Don." "Is he better?" "Oh, yes; he's getting better. I don't think you could kill him. Sort o' chap that if you cut him to pieces some bit or another would be sure to grow again." "Why, it was Mike Bannock and those wretches, Jem." "That's what we thought, my lad, but we couldn't find out. It was some one, and whoever it was took away three guns." "I saw them, Jem." "You see 'em?" "Yes, as I lay back with my head so bad that I couldn't be sure." "Ah, well, they found us out, and they've got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful." Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, "My pakeha." CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. DON SPEAKS OUT. A healthy young constitution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could. "I'm very sorry, Mr Gordon," said Don one evening to the young settler. "Sorry? What for, my lad?" he said. "For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble." "Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in." "Ungrateful!" "Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die." "Oh!" said Don smiling. "Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel." Don smiled sadly. "I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go." "What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw." "I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush. "Have we scared them off?" said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign. "I don't know," said the other. "I can't help thinking--" "Look out, Mas' Don!" _Bang_! _bang_! Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati's spear played its part, darting swiftly about
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he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could. "I'm very sorry, Mr Gordon," said Don one evening to the young settler. "Sorry? What for, my lad?" he said. "For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble." "Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in." "Ungrateful!" "Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die." "Oh!" said Don smiling. "Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel." Don smiled sadly. "I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go." "What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw." "I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.<|quote|>"One of the sheep got loose,"</|quote|>said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then,
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Don Lavington
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said the King.
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No speaker
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"You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The
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when I was sent for." "You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March
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first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. "I beg pardon, your Majesty," he began, "for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for." "You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. "Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it was," he said. "Fifteenth," said the March Hare. "Sixteenth," added the Dormouse. "Write that down," the King said to the jury, and
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quite away!" "Consider your verdict," the King said to the jury. "Not yet, not yet!" the Rabbit hastily interrupted. "There's a great deal to come before that!" "Call the first witness," said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, "First witness!" The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. "I beg pardon, your Majesty," he began, "for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for." "You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. "Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it was," he said. "Fifteenth," said the March Hare. "Sixteenth," added the Dormouse. "Write that down," the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. "Take off your hat," the King said to the Hatter. "It isn't mine," said the Hatter. "_Stolen!_" the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly
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Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate. "Herald, read the accusation!" said the King. On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:-- "The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!" "Consider your verdict," the King said to the jury. "Not yet, not yet!" the Rabbit hastily interrupted. "There's a great deal to come before that!" "Call the first witness," said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, "First witness!" The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. "I beg pardon, your Majesty," he began, "for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for." "You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. "Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it was," he said. "Fifteenth," said the March Hare. "Sixteenth," added the Dormouse. "Write that down," the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. "Take off your hat," the King said to the Hatter. "It isn't mine," said the Hatter. "_Stolen!_" the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. "I keep them to sell," the Hatter added as an explanation; "I've none of my own. I'm a hatter." Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. "Give your evidence," said the King; "and don't be nervous, or I'll have you executed on the spot." This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of
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on slates. "What are they doing?" Alice whispered to the Gryphon. "They can't have anything to put down yet, before the trial's begun." "They're putting down their names," the Gryphon whispered in reply, "for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial." "Stupid things!" Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, "Silence in the court!" and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking. Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down "stupid things!" on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn't know how to spell "stupid," and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. "A nice muddle their slates'll be in before the trial's over!" thought Alice. One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice could _not_ stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate. "Herald, read the accusation!" said the King. On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:-- "The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!" "Consider your verdict," the King said to the jury. "Not yet, not yet!" the Rabbit hastily interrupted. "There's a great deal to come before that!" "Call the first witness," said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, "First witness!" The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. "I beg pardon, your Majesty," he began, "for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for." "You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. "Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it was," he said. "Fifteenth," said the March Hare. "Sixteenth," added the Dormouse. "Write that down," the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. "Take off your hat," the King said to the Hatter. "It isn't mine," said the Hatter. "_Stolen!_" the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. "I keep them to sell," the Hatter added as an explanation; "I've none of my own. I'm a hatter." Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. "Give your evidence," said the King; "and don't be nervous, or I'll have you executed on the spot." This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter. Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her. "I wish you wouldn't squeeze so." said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. "I can hardly breathe." "I can't help it," said Alice very meekly: "I'm growing." "You've no right to grow _here_," said the Dormouse. "Don't talk nonsense," said Alice more boldly: "you know you're growing too." "Yes, but _I_ grow at a reasonable pace," said the Dormouse: "not in that ridiculous fashion." And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, "Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!" on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his
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cry of "The trial's beginning!" was heard in the distance. "Come on!" cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song. "What trial is it?" Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only answered "Come on!" and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:-- "Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!" CHAPTER XI. Who Stole the Tarts? The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--" "I wish they'd get the trial done," she thought, "and hand round the refreshments!" But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time. Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew the name of nearly everything there. "That's the judge," she said to herself, "because of his great wig." The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming. "And that's the jury-box," thought Alice, "and those twelve creatures," (she was obliged to say "creatures," you see, because some of them were animals, and some were birds,) "I suppose they are the jurors." She said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. However, "jury-men" would have done just as well. The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. "What are they doing?" Alice whispered to the Gryphon. "They can't have anything to put down yet, before the trial's begun." "They're putting down their names," the Gryphon whispered in reply, "for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial." "Stupid things!" Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, "Silence in the court!" and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking. Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down "stupid things!" on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn't know how to spell "stupid," and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. "A nice muddle their slates'll be in before the trial's over!" thought Alice. One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice could _not_ stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate. "Herald, read the accusation!" said the King. On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:-- "The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!" "Consider your verdict," the King said to the jury. "Not yet, not yet!" the Rabbit hastily interrupted. "There's a great deal to come before that!" "Call the first witness," said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, "First witness!" The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. "I beg pardon, your Majesty," he began, "for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for." "You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. "Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it was," he said. "Fifteenth," said the March Hare. "Sixteenth," added the Dormouse. "Write that down," the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. "Take off your hat," the King said to the Hatter. "It isn't mine," said the Hatter. "_Stolen!_" the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. "I keep them to sell," the Hatter added as an explanation; "I've none of my own. I'm a hatter." Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. "Give your evidence," said the King; "and don't be nervous, or I'll have you executed on the spot." This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter. Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her. "I wish you wouldn't squeeze so." said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. "I can hardly breathe." "I can't help it," said Alice very meekly: "I'm growing." "You've no right to grow _here_," said the Dormouse. "Don't talk nonsense," said Alice more boldly: "you know you're growing too." "Yes, but _I_ grow at a reasonable pace," said the Dormouse: "not in that ridiculous fashion." And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, "Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!" on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off. "Give your evidence," the King repeated angrily, "or I'll have you executed, whether you're nervous or not." "I'm a poor man, your Majesty," the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, "--and I hadn't begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what with the bread-and-butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the tea--" "The twinkling of the _what?_" said the King. "It _began_ with the tea," the Hatter replied. "Of course twinkling begins with a T!" said the King sharply. "Do you take me for a dunce? Go on!" "I'm a poor man," the Hatter went on, "and most things twinkled after that--only the March Hare said--" "I didn't!" the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry. "You did!" said the Hatter. "I deny it!" said the March Hare. "He denies it," said the King: "leave out that part." "Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said--" the Hatter went on, looking anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied nothing, being fast asleep. "After that," continued the Hatter, "I cut some more bread-and-butter--" "But what did the Dormouse say?" one of the jury asked. "That I can't remember," said the Hatter. "You _must_ remember," remarked the King, "or I'll have you executed." The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went down on one knee. "I'm a poor man, your Majesty," he began. "You're a _very_ poor _speaker_," said the King. Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat upon it.) "I'm glad I've seen that done," thought Alice. "I've so often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials," "There was some attempts at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court," "and I never understood what it meant till now." "If that's all you know about it, you may stand down," continued the King. "I can't go no lower," said the Hatter: "I'm on the floor, as it is." "Then you may _sit_ down," the King replied. Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed. "Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!" thought Alice. "Now we shall
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poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate. "Herald, read the accusation!" said the King. On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:-- "The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!" "Consider your verdict," the King said to the jury. "Not yet, not yet!" the Rabbit hastily interrupted. "There's a great deal to come before that!" "Call the first witness," said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, "First witness!" The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. "I beg pardon, your Majesty," he began, "for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for." "You ought to have finished,"<|quote|>said the King.</|quote|>"When did you begin?" The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. "Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it was," he said. "Fifteenth," said the March Hare. "Sixteenth," added the Dormouse. "Write that down," the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence. "Take off your hat," the King said to the Hatter. "It isn't mine," said the Hatter. "_Stolen!_" the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. "I keep them to sell," the Hatter added as an explanation; "I've none of my own. I'm a hatter." Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted. "Give your evidence," said the King; "and don't be nervous, or I'll have you executed on the spot." This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter. Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her. "I wish you wouldn't squeeze so." said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. "I can hardly breathe." "I can't help it," said Alice very meekly: "I'm growing." "You've no right to grow _here_," said the Dormouse. "Don't talk nonsense," said Alice more boldly: "you know you're growing too." "Yes, but _I_ grow at a reasonable pace," said the Dormouse: "not in that ridiculous fashion." And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, "Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!" on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off. "Give your evidence," the King repeated angrily, "or I'll have you executed, whether you're nervous or not." "I'm a poor man, your Majesty," the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, "--and I hadn't begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what with the bread-and-butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the tea--" "The twinkling of the _what?_" said the King. "It _began_ with the tea," the Hatter replied. "Of course twinkling begins with
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"
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Margaret
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hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them,"
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girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly.
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last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us." "With YOU?" "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs outside interests." "Naughty young man!" cried the girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. "Yes, indeed, father." "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. "Oh, I dare say!" "Miss Wilcox, he was!" "M--m--m--m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies
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strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she retreated to what she called her "second line"--to the special facts of the case. "His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never came home last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us." "With YOU?" "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs outside interests." "Naughty young man!" cried the girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. "Yes, indeed, father." "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. "Oh, I dare say!" "Miss Wilcox, he was!" "M--m--m--m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret s reputation as an emancipated woman. "He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn t lie." They both began to laugh. "That s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and prospects, but
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after his own affairs. I quite grant--I look at the faces of the clerks in my own office, and observe them to be dull, but I don t know what s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only see civilisation from the outside. I don t say in your case, but in too many cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism." She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she retreated to what she called her "second line"--to the special facts of the case. "His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never came home last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us." "With YOU?" "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs outside interests." "Naughty young man!" cried the girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. "Yes, indeed, father." "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. "Oh, I dare say!" "Miss Wilcox, he was!" "M--m--m--m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret s reputation as an emancipated woman. "He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn t lie." They both began to laugh. "That s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that sort." He shook his head. "Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type." "I said before--he isn t a type. He cares about adventures rightly. He s certain that our smug existence isn t all. He s vulgar and hysterical and bookish, but don t think that sums him up. There s manhood in him as well. Yes, that s what I m trying to say. He s a real man." As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. Wilcox s defences fell. She saw back to the real
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be loathsome stuff. His brain is filled with the husks of books, culture--horrible; we want him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the country, some" "--she hesitated--" "either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life s daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both." Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he caught and criticised with admirable lucidity. "Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mistake. This young bounder has a life of his own. What right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or, as you call it, grey ?" "Because--" "One minute. You know nothing about him. He probably has his own joys and interests--wife, children, snug little home. That s where we practical fellows" he smiled--" "are more tolerant than you intellectuals. We live and let live, and assume that things are jogging on fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain man may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I quite grant--I look at the faces of the clerks in my own office, and observe them to be dull, but I don t know what s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only see civilisation from the outside. I don t say in your case, but in too many cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism." She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she retreated to what she called her "second line"--to the special facts of the case. "His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never came home last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us." "With YOU?" "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs outside interests." "Naughty young man!" cried the girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. "Yes, indeed, father." "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. "Oh, I dare say!" "Miss Wilcox, he was!" "M--m--m--m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret s reputation as an emancipated woman. "He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn t lie." They both began to laugh. "That s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that sort." He shook his head. "Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type." "I said before--he isn t a type. He cares about adventures rightly. He s certain that our smug existence isn t all. He s vulgar and hysterical and bookish, but don t think that sums him up. There s manhood in him as well. Yes, that s what I m trying to say. He s a real man." As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. Wilcox s defences fell. She saw back to the real man in him. Unwittingly she had touched his emotions. A woman and two men--they had formed the magic triangle of sex, and the male was thrilled to jealousy, in case the female was attracted by another male. Love, say the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with the beasts. Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the real shame. It is jealousy, not love, that connects us with the farmyard intolerably, and calls up visions of two angry cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret crushed complacency down because she was civilised. Mr. Wilcox, uncivilised, continued to feel anger long after he had rebuilt his defences, and was again presenting a bastion to the world. "Miss Schlegel, you re a pair of dear creatures, but you really MUST be careful in this uncharitable world. What does your brother say?" "I forget." "Surely he has some opinion?" "He laughs, if I remember correctly." "He s very clever, isn t he?" said Evie, who had met and detested Tibby at Oxford. "Yes, pretty well--but I wonder what Helen s doing." "She is very young to undertake this sort of thing," said Mr. Wilcox. Margaret went out to the landing. She heard no
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changed his mood. He asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: "Oughtn t you really to be more careful?" Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. "Do you realise that it s all your fault?" she said. "You re responsible." "I?" "This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a fair deduction," he said. "Obviously unfair," said Margaret. "I was only thinking how tangled things are. It s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his." "Not his?" "No." "Miss Schlegel, you are too kind." "Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. "You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren t our sort, and one must face the fact." "Ye--es." "Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman." "I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself." Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. "What did he suspect you of?" "Of wanting to make money out of him." "Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?" "Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make men intolerable brutes." "I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in." She turned to him frankly. "Let me explain exactly why we like this man, and want to see him again." "That s your clever way of talking. I shall never believe you like him." "I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for something special IN adventure. It is quickest to call that special something poetry--" "Oh, he s one of that writer sort." "No--oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome stuff. His brain is filled with the husks of books, culture--horrible; we want him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the country, some" "--she hesitated--" "either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life s daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both." Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he caught and criticised with admirable lucidity. "Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mistake. This young bounder has a life of his own. What right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or, as you call it, grey ?" "Because--" "One minute. You know nothing about him. He probably has his own joys and interests--wife, children, snug little home. That s where we practical fellows" he smiled--" "are more tolerant than you intellectuals. We live and let live, and assume that things are jogging on fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain man may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I quite grant--I look at the faces of the clerks in my own office, and observe them to be dull, but I don t know what s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only see civilisation from the outside. I don t say in your case, but in too many cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism." She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she retreated to what she called her "second line"--to the special facts of the case. "His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never came home last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us." "With YOU?" "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs outside interests." "Naughty young man!" cried the girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. "Yes, indeed, father." "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. "Oh, I dare say!" "Miss Wilcox, he was!" "M--m--m--m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret s reputation as an emancipated woman. "He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn t lie." They both began to laugh. "That s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that sort." He shook his head. "Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type." "I said before--he isn t a type. He cares about adventures rightly. He s certain that our smug existence isn t all. He s vulgar and hysterical and bookish, but don t think that sums him up. There s manhood in him as well. Yes, that s what I m trying to say. He s a real man." As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. Wilcox s defences fell. She saw back to the real man in him. Unwittingly she had touched his emotions. A woman and two men--they had formed the magic triangle of sex, and the male was thrilled to jealousy, in case the female was attracted by another male. Love, say the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with the beasts. Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the real shame. It is jealousy, not love, that connects us with the farmyard intolerably, and calls up visions of two angry cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret crushed complacency down because she was civilised. Mr. Wilcox, uncivilised, continued to feel anger long after he had rebuilt his defences, and was again presenting a bastion to the world. "Miss Schlegel, you re a pair of dear creatures, but you really MUST be careful in this uncharitable world. What does your brother say?" "I forget." "Surely he has some opinion?" "He laughs, if I remember correctly." "He s very clever, isn t he?" said Evie, who had met and detested Tibby at Oxford. "Yes, pretty well--but I wonder what Helen s doing." "She is very young to undertake this sort of thing," said Mr. Wilcox. Margaret went out to the landing. She heard no sound, and Mr. Bast s topper was missing from the hall. "Helen!" she called. "Yes!" replied a voice from the library. "You in there?" "Yes--he s gone some time." Margaret went to her. "Why, you re all alone," she said. "Yes--it s all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature--" "Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later--Mr. W much concerned, and slightly titillated." "Oh, I ve no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear Mr. Bast! he wanted to talk literature, and we would talk business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so worth pulling through. I like him extraordinarily." "Well done," said Margaret, kissing her, "but come into the drawing-room now, and don t talk about him to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing." Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that reassured their visitor--this hen at all events was fancy-free. "He s gone with my blessing," she cried, "and now for puppies." As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter: "I am really concerned at the way those girls go on. They are as clever as you make em, but unpractical--God bless me! One of these days they ll go too far. Girls like that oughtn t to live alone in London. Until they marry, they ought to have some one to look after them. We must look in more often--we re better than no one. You like them, don t you, Evie?" Evie replied: "Helen s right enough, but I can t stand the toothy one. And I shouldn t have called either of them girls." Evie had grown up handsome. Dark-eyed, with the glow of youth under sunburn, built firmly and firm-lipped, she was the best the Wilcoxes could do in the way of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and her father were the only things she loved, but the net of matrimony was being prepared for her, and a few days later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy Cahill, an uncle of Mrs. Charles s, and he was attracted to her. CHAPTER XVII The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for a proprietor. When a move is imminent, furniture becomes ridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake at nights wondering where, where on earth they and all their belongings would be deposited in September next. Chairs, tables, pictures, books, that had rumbled down to them through
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trusted to look after his own affairs. I quite grant--I look at the faces of the clerks in my own office, and observe them to be dull, but I don t know what s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say but I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only see civilisation from the outside. I don t say in your case, but in too many cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism." She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she retreated to what she called her "second line"--to the special facts of the case. "His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never came home last Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us." "With YOU?" "Yes." Evie tittered. "He hasn t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs outside interests." "Naughty young man!" cried the girl. "Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin.<|quote|>"When you re married Miss Wilcox, won t you want outside interests?"</|quote|>"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. "Yes, indeed, father." "He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that," said Margaret, pacing away rather crossly. "Oh, I dare say!" "Miss Wilcox, he was!" "M--m--m--m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret s reputation as an emancipated woman. "He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn t lie." They both began to laugh. "That s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that sort." He shook his head. "Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type." "I said before--he isn t a type. He cares about adventures rightly. He s certain that our smug existence isn t all. He s vulgar and hysterical and bookish, but don t think that sums him up. There s manhood in him as well. Yes, that s what I m trying to say. He s a real man." As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. Wilcox s defences fell. She saw back to the real man in him. Unwittingly she had touched his emotions. A woman and two men--they had formed the magic triangle of sex, and the male was thrilled to jealousy, in case the female was attracted by another male. Love, say the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with the beasts. Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the real shame. It is jealousy, not love, that connects us with the farmyard intolerably, and calls up visions of two angry cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret crushed complacency down because she was civilised. Mr. Wilcox, uncivilised, continued to feel anger long after he had rebuilt his defences, and was again presenting a bastion to the world. "Miss Schlegel, you re a pair of dear creatures, but you really MUST be careful in this uncharitable world. What does your brother say?" "I forget." "Surely he has some opinion?" "He laughs, if I remember correctly." "He s very clever, isn t he?" said Evie, who had met and detested Tibby at Oxford. "Yes, pretty well--but I wonder what Helen s doing." "She is very young to undertake this sort of thing," said Mr. Wilcox. Margaret went out to the landing. She heard no sound, and Mr. Bast s topper was missing from the hall. "Helen!" she called. "Yes!" replied a voice from the library. "You in there?" "Yes--he s gone some time." Margaret went to her. "Why, you re all alone," she said. "Yes--it s all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature--" "Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later--Mr. W much concerned, and slightly titillated." "Oh, I ve no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear Mr. Bast! he wanted to talk literature, and we would talk business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so worth pulling through. I like him extraordinarily." "Well done," said Margaret, kissing her, "but come into the drawing-room now, and don t talk about him to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing." Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that reassured their visitor--this hen at all events was fancy-free. "He s gone with my blessing," she cried, "and now for puppies." As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to
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Howards End
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“He never married her,”
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Frances
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This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t
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there was now a baby. This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came
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Ántonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied that grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.” I tried to shut
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we gathered in grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided all evening. When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at her gate, she said simply, “You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.” Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied that grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.” I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when
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and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years old. BOOK IV—THE PIONEER WOMAN’S STORY I TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided all evening. When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at her gate, she said simply, “You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.” Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied that grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.” I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the world. Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at Mrs. Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the water-front
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ought n’t to have begun it, ought I?” she murmured. “I ought n’t to have gone to see you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I’ve always been a little foolish about you. I don’t know what first put it into my head, unless it was Ántonia, always telling me I must n’t be up to any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a long while, though, did n’t I?” She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard! At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss. “You are n’t sorry I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart. You were such a funny kid!” She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely sending one away forever. We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she never tried to hinder me or hold me back. “You are going, but you have n’t gone yet, have you?” she used to say. My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my grandparents for a few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years old. BOOK IV—THE PIONEER WOMAN’S STORY I TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided all evening. When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at her gate, she said simply, “You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.” Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied that grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.” I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the world. Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at Mrs. Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the water-front in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors’ lodging-house. This, every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running a decent place, she could n’t keep it up; all sailors’ boarding-houses were alike. When I thought about it, I discovered that I had never known Tiny as well as I knew the other girls. I remembered her tripping briskly about the dining-room on her high heels, carrying a big tray full of dishes, glancing rather pertly at the spruce traveling men, and contemptuously at the scrubby ones—who were so afraid of her that they did n’t dare to ask for two kinds of pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, might be afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat talking about her on Frances Harling’s front porch, if we could have known what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who grew up together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was to lead the most adventurous life and to achieve the most solid worldly
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to myself except when I was off with the cattle.” Usually, when Lena referred to her life in the country at all, she dismissed it with a single remark, humorous or mildly cynical. But to-night her mind seemed to dwell on those early years. She told me she could n’t remember a time when she was so little that she was n’t lugging a heavy baby about, helping to wash for babies, trying to keep their little chapped hands and faces clean. She remembered home as a place where there were always too many children, a cross man, and work piling up around a sick woman. “It was n’t mother’s fault. She would have made us comfortable if she could. But that was no life for a girl! After I began to herd and milk I could never get the smell of the cattle off me. The few underclothes I had I kept in a cracker box. On Saturday nights, after everybody was in bed, then I could take a bath if I was n’t too tired. I could make two trips to the windmill to carry water, and heat it in the wash-boiler on the stove. While the water was heating, I could bring in a washtub out of the cave, and take my bath in the kitchen. Then I could put on a clean nightgown and get into bed with two others, who likely had n’t had a bath unless I’d given it to them. You can’t tell me anything about family life. I’ve had plenty to last me.” “But it’s not all like that,” I objected. “Near enough. It’s all being under somebody’s thumb. What’s on your mind, Jim? Are you afraid I’ll want you to marry me some day?” Then I told her I was going away. “What makes you want to go away, Jim? Have n’t I been nice to you?” “You’ve been just awfully good to me, Lena,” I blurted. “I don’t think about much else. I never shall think about much else while I’m with you. I’ll never settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that.” I dropped down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have forgotten all my reasonable explanations. Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in her voice that had hurt me was not there when she spoke again. “I ought n’t to have begun it, ought I?” she murmured. “I ought n’t to have gone to see you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I’ve always been a little foolish about you. I don’t know what first put it into my head, unless it was Ántonia, always telling me I must n’t be up to any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a long while, though, did n’t I?” She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard! At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss. “You are n’t sorry I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart. You were such a funny kid!” She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely sending one away forever. We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she never tried to hinder me or hold me back. “You are going, but you have n’t gone yet, have you?” she used to say. My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my grandparents for a few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years old. BOOK IV—THE PIONEER WOMAN’S STORY I TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided all evening. When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at her gate, she said simply, “You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.” Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied that grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.” I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the world. Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at Mrs. Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the water-front in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors’ lodging-house. This, every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running a decent place, she could n’t keep it up; all sailors’ boarding-houses were alike. When I thought about it, I discovered that I had never known Tiny as well as I knew the other girls. I remembered her tripping briskly about the dining-room on her high heels, carrying a big tray full of dishes, glancing rather pertly at the spruce traveling men, and contemptuously at the scrubby ones—who were so afraid of her that they did n’t dare to ask for two kinds of pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, might be afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat talking about her on Frances Harling’s front porch, if we could have known what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who grew up together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was to lead the most adventurous life and to achieve the most solid worldly success. This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was running her lodging-house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska. Miners and sailors came back from the North with wonderful stories and pouches of gold. Tiny saw it and weighed it in her hands. That daring which nobody had ever suspected in her, awoke. She sold her business and set out for Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife whom she had persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a snowstorm, went in dog sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the Yukon in flatboats. They reached Circle City on the very day when some Siwash Indians came into the settlement with the report that there had been a rich gold strike farther up the river, on a certain Klondike Creek. Two days later Tiny and her friends, and nearly every one else in Circle City, started for the Klondike fields on the last steamer that went up the Yukon before it froze for the winter. That boatload of people founded Dawson City. Within a few weeks there were fifteen hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and the carpenter’s wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners gave her a lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There she sometimes fed a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on snowshoes from their placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh bread from her, and paid for it in gold. That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs had been frozen one night in a storm when he was trying to find his way back to his cabin. The poor fellow thought it great good fortune to be cared for by a woman, and a woman who spoke his own tongue. When he was told that his feet must be amputated, he said he hoped he would not get well; what could a working-man do in this hard world without feet? He did, in fact, die from the operation, but not before he had deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on Hunker Creek. Tiny sold her hotel, invested half her money in Dawson building lots, and with the rest she developed her claim. She went off into the wilds and lived on it. She bought other claims from discouraged miners, traded or
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Lena,” I blurted. “I don’t think about much else. I never shall think about much else while I’m with you. I’ll never settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that.” I dropped down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have forgotten all my reasonable explanations. Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in her voice that had hurt me was not there when she spoke again. “I ought n’t to have begun it, ought I?” she murmured. “I ought n’t to have gone to see you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I’ve always been a little foolish about you. I don’t know what first put it into my head, unless it was Ántonia, always telling me I must n’t be up to any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a long while, though, did n’t I?” She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard! At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss. “You are n’t sorry I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart. You were such a funny kid!” She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely sending one away forever. We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she never tried to hinder me or hold me back. “You are going, but you have n’t gone yet, have you?” she used to say. My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my grandparents for a few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years old. BOOK IV—THE PIONEER WOMAN’S STORY I TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided all evening. When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at her gate, she said simply, “You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.” Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I replied that grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.<|quote|>“He never married her,”</|quote|>Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.” I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the world. Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at Mrs. Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the water-front in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors’ lodging-house. This, every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running a decent place, she could n’t keep it up; all sailors’ boarding-houses were alike. When I thought about it, I discovered that I had
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My Antonia
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assured Anne.
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No speaker
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as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you
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him to death." "I'll be as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake
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find some excuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister's wife will frighten him to death." "I'll be as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allan, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time." "You can make a layer cake," promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at
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must have Mr. and Mrs. Allan up to tea someday soon," said Marilla reflectively. "They've been most everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have them. But don't say a word to Matthew about it, for if he knew they were coming he'd find some excuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister's wife will frighten him to death." "I'll be as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allan, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time." "You can make a layer cake," promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with excitement and delight. She talked it all over with Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as
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to speak so about Mr. Bell," said Marilla severely. "Mr. Bell is a real good man." "Oh, of course he's good," agreed Anne, "but he doesn't seem to get any comfort out of it. If I could be good I'd dance and sing all day because I was glad of it. I suppose Mrs. Allan is too old to dance and sing and of course it wouldn't be dignified in a minister's wife. But I can just feel she's glad she's a Christian and that she'd be one even if she could get to heaven without it." "I suppose we must have Mr. and Mrs. Allan up to tea someday soon," said Marilla reflectively. "They've been most everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have them. But don't say a word to Matthew about it, for if he knew they were coming he'd find some excuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister's wife will frighten him to death." "I'll be as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allan, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time." "You can make a layer cake," promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with excitement and delight. She talked it all over with Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as they sat on the big red stones by the Dryad's Bubble and made rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fir balsam. "Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake which I'm to make in the morning, and the baking-powder biscuits which Marilla will make just before teatime. I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a busy two days of it. It's such a responsibility having a minister's family to tea. I never went through such an experience before. You should just see our pantry. It's a sight to behold. We're going to have jellied chicken
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and I asked ever so many. I'm good at asking questions, Marilla." "I believe you" was Marilla's emphatic comment. "Nobody else asked any except Ruby Gillis, and she asked if there was to be a Sunday-school picnic this summer. I didn't think that was a very proper question to ask because it hadn't any connection with the lesson--the lesson was about Daniel in the lions' den--but Mrs. Allan just smiled and said she thought there would be. Mrs. Allan has a lovely smile; she has such _exquisite_ dimples in her cheeks. I wish I had dimples in my cheeks, Marilla. I'm not half so skinny as I was when I came here, but I have no dimples yet. If I had perhaps I could influence people for good. Mrs. Allan said we ought always to try to influence other people for good. She talked so nice about everything. I never knew before that religion was such a cheerful thing. I always thought it was kind of melancholy, but Mrs. Allan's isn't, and I'd like to be a Christian if I could be one like her. I wouldn't want to be one like Mr. Superintendent Bell." "It's very naughty of you to speak so about Mr. Bell," said Marilla severely. "Mr. Bell is a real good man." "Oh, of course he's good," agreed Anne, "but he doesn't seem to get any comfort out of it. If I could be good I'd dance and sing all day because I was glad of it. I suppose Mrs. Allan is too old to dance and sing and of course it wouldn't be dignified in a minister's wife. But I can just feel she's glad she's a Christian and that she'd be one even if she could get to heaven without it." "I suppose we must have Mr. and Mrs. Allan up to tea someday soon," said Marilla reflectively. "They've been most everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have them. But don't say a word to Matthew about it, for if he knew they were coming he'd find some excuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister's wife will frighten him to death." "I'll be as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allan, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time." "You can make a layer cake," promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with excitement and delight. She talked it all over with Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as they sat on the big red stones by the Dryad's Bubble and made rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fir balsam. "Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake which I'm to make in the morning, and the baking-powder biscuits which Marilla will make just before teatime. I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a busy two days of it. It's such a responsibility having a minister's family to tea. I never went through such an experience before. You should just see our pantry. It's a sight to behold. We're going to have jellied chicken and cold tongue. We're to have two kinds of jelly, red and yellow, and whipped cream and lemon pie, and cherry pie, and three kinds of cookies, and fruit cake, and Marilla's famous yellow plum preserves that she keeps especially for ministers, and pound cake and layer cake, and biscuits as aforesaid; and new bread and old both, in case the minister is dyspeptic and can't eat new. Mrs. Lynde says ministers are dyspeptic, but I don't think Mr. Allan has been a minister long enough for it to have had a bad effect on him. I just grow cold when I think of my layer cake. Oh, Diana, what if it shouldn't be good! I dreamed last night that I was chased all around by a fearful goblin with a big layer cake for a head." "It'll be good, all right," assured Diana, who was a very comfortable sort of friend. "I'm sure that piece of the one you made that we had for lunch in Idlewild two weeks ago was perfectly elegant." "Yes; but cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good," sighed Anne, setting a particularly
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just like Mr. Bentley's--he had no imagination. And Mr. Terry had too much; he let it run away with him just as I did mine in the matter of the Haunted Wood. Besides, Mrs. Lynde says his theology wasn't sound. Mr. Gresham was a very good man and a very religious man, but he told too many funny stories and made the people laugh in church; he was undignified, and you must have some dignity about a minister, mustn't you, Matthew? I thought Mr. Marshall was decidedly attractive; but Mrs. Lynde says he isn't married, or even engaged, because she made special inquiries about him, and she says it would never do to have a young unmarried minister in Avonlea, because he might marry in the congregation and that would make trouble. Mrs. Lynde is a very farseeing woman, isn't she, Matthew? I'm very glad they've called Mr. Allan. I liked him because his sermon was interesting and he prayed as if he meant it and not just as if he did it because he was in the habit of it. Mrs. Lynde says he isn't perfect, but she says she supposes we couldn't expect a perfect minister for seven hundred and fifty dollars a year, and anyhow his theology is sound because she questioned him thoroughly on all the points of doctrine. And she knows his wife's people and they are most respectable and the women are all good housekeepers. Mrs. Lynde says that sound doctrine in the man and good housekeeping in the woman make an ideal combination for a minister's family." The new minister and his wife were a young, pleasant-faced couple, still on their honeymoon, and full of all good and beautiful enthusiasms for their chosen lifework. Avonlea opened its heart to them from the start. Old and young liked the frank, cheerful young man with his high ideals, and the bright, gentle little lady who assumed the mistress-ship of the manse. With Mrs. Allan Anne fell promptly and wholeheartedly in love. She had discovered another kindred spirit. "Mrs. Allan is perfectly lovely," she announced one Sunday afternoon. "She's taken our class and she's a splendid teacher. She said right away she didn't think it was fair for the teacher to ask all the questions, and you know, Marilla, that is exactly what I've always thought. She said we could ask her any question we liked and I asked ever so many. I'm good at asking questions, Marilla." "I believe you" was Marilla's emphatic comment. "Nobody else asked any except Ruby Gillis, and she asked if there was to be a Sunday-school picnic this summer. I didn't think that was a very proper question to ask because it hadn't any connection with the lesson--the lesson was about Daniel in the lions' den--but Mrs. Allan just smiled and said she thought there would be. Mrs. Allan has a lovely smile; she has such _exquisite_ dimples in her cheeks. I wish I had dimples in my cheeks, Marilla. I'm not half so skinny as I was when I came here, but I have no dimples yet. If I had perhaps I could influence people for good. Mrs. Allan said we ought always to try to influence other people for good. She talked so nice about everything. I never knew before that religion was such a cheerful thing. I always thought it was kind of melancholy, but Mrs. Allan's isn't, and I'd like to be a Christian if I could be one like her. I wouldn't want to be one like Mr. Superintendent Bell." "It's very naughty of you to speak so about Mr. Bell," said Marilla severely. "Mr. Bell is a real good man." "Oh, of course he's good," agreed Anne, "but he doesn't seem to get any comfort out of it. If I could be good I'd dance and sing all day because I was glad of it. I suppose Mrs. Allan is too old to dance and sing and of course it wouldn't be dignified in a minister's wife. But I can just feel she's glad she's a Christian and that she'd be one even if she could get to heaven without it." "I suppose we must have Mr. and Mrs. Allan up to tea someday soon," said Marilla reflectively. "They've been most everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have them. But don't say a word to Matthew about it, for if he knew they were coming he'd find some excuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister's wife will frighten him to death." "I'll be as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allan, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time." "You can make a layer cake," promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with excitement and delight. She talked it all over with Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as they sat on the big red stones by the Dryad's Bubble and made rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fir balsam. "Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake which I'm to make in the morning, and the baking-powder biscuits which Marilla will make just before teatime. I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a busy two days of it. It's such a responsibility having a minister's family to tea. I never went through such an experience before. You should just see our pantry. It's a sight to behold. We're going to have jellied chicken and cold tongue. We're to have two kinds of jelly, red and yellow, and whipped cream and lemon pie, and cherry pie, and three kinds of cookies, and fruit cake, and Marilla's famous yellow plum preserves that she keeps especially for ministers, and pound cake and layer cake, and biscuits as aforesaid; and new bread and old both, in case the minister is dyspeptic and can't eat new. Mrs. Lynde says ministers are dyspeptic, but I don't think Mr. Allan has been a minister long enough for it to have had a bad effect on him. I just grow cold when I think of my layer cake. Oh, Diana, what if it shouldn't be good! I dreamed last night that I was chased all around by a fearful goblin with a big layer cake for a head." "It'll be good, all right," assured Diana, who was a very comfortable sort of friend. "I'm sure that piece of the one you made that we had for lunch in Idlewild two weeks ago was perfectly elegant." "Yes; but cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good," sighed Anne, setting a particularly well-balsamed twig afloat. "However, I suppose I shall just have to trust to Providence and be careful to put in the flour. Oh, look, Diana, what a lovely rainbow! Do you suppose the dryad will come out after we go away and take it for a scarf?" "You know there is no such thing as a dryad," said Diana. Diana's mother had found out about the Haunted Wood and had been decidedly angry over it. As a result Diana had abstained from any further imitative flights of imagination and did not think it prudent to cultivate a spirit of belief even in harmless dryads. "But it's so easy to imagine there is," said Anne. "Every night before I go to bed, I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, combing her locks with the spring for a mirror. Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith in the dryad!" Wednesday morning came. Anne got up at sunrise because she was too excited to sleep. She had caught a severe cold in the head by reason of her dabbling in the spring on the preceding evening; but nothing short of absolute pneumonia could have quenched her interest in culinary matters that morning. After breakfast she proceeded to make her cake. When she finally shut the oven door upon it she drew a long breath. "I'm sure I haven't forgotten anything this time, Marilla. But do you think it will rise? Just suppose perhaps the baking powder isn't good? I used it out of the new can. And Mrs. Lynde says you can never be sure of getting good baking powder nowadays when everything is so adulterated. Mrs. Lynde says the Government ought to take the matter up, but she says we'll never see the day when a Tory Government will do it. Marilla, what if that cake doesn't rise?" "We'll have plenty without it" was Marilla's unimpassioned way of looking at the subject. The cake did rise, however, and came out of the oven as light and feathery as golden foam. Anne, flushed with delight, clapped it together with layers of ruby jelly and, in imagination, saw Mrs. Allan eating it and possibly asking for another piece! "You'll be using the best tea set, of course, Marilla," she said. "Can I fix the
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them from the start. Old and young liked the frank, cheerful young man with his high ideals, and the bright, gentle little lady who assumed the mistress-ship of the manse. With Mrs. Allan Anne fell promptly and wholeheartedly in love. She had discovered another kindred spirit. "Mrs. Allan is perfectly lovely," she announced one Sunday afternoon. "She's taken our class and she's a splendid teacher. She said right away she didn't think it was fair for the teacher to ask all the questions, and you know, Marilla, that is exactly what I've always thought. She said we could ask her any question we liked and I asked ever so many. I'm good at asking questions, Marilla." "I believe you" was Marilla's emphatic comment. "Nobody else asked any except Ruby Gillis, and she asked if there was to be a Sunday-school picnic this summer. I didn't think that was a very proper question to ask because it hadn't any connection with the lesson--the lesson was about Daniel in the lions' den--but Mrs. Allan just smiled and said she thought there would be. Mrs. Allan has a lovely smile; she has such _exquisite_ dimples in her cheeks. I wish I had dimples in my cheeks, Marilla. I'm not half so skinny as I was when I came here, but I have no dimples yet. If I had perhaps I could influence people for good. Mrs. Allan said we ought always to try to influence other people for good. She talked so nice about everything. I never knew before that religion was such a cheerful thing. I always thought it was kind of melancholy, but Mrs. Allan's isn't, and I'd like to be a Christian if I could be one like her. I wouldn't want to be one like Mr. Superintendent Bell." "It's very naughty of you to speak so about Mr. Bell," said Marilla severely. "Mr. Bell is a real good man." "Oh, of course he's good," agreed Anne, "but he doesn't seem to get any comfort out of it. If I could be good I'd dance and sing all day because I was glad of it. I suppose Mrs. Allan is too old to dance and sing and of course it wouldn't be dignified in a minister's wife. But I can just feel she's glad she's a Christian and that she'd be one even if she could get to heaven without it." "I suppose we must have Mr. and Mrs. Allan up to tea someday soon," said Marilla reflectively. "They've been most everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have them. But don't say a word to Matthew about it, for if he knew they were coming he'd find some excuse to be away that day. He'd got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn't mind him, but he's going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister's wife will frighten him to death." "I'll be as secret as the dead,"<|quote|>assured Anne.</|quote|>"But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I'd love to do something for Mrs. Allan, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time." "You can make a layer cake," promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with excitement and delight. She talked it all over with Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as they sat on the big red stones by the Dryad's Bubble and made rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fir balsam. "Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake which I'm to make in the morning, and the baking-powder biscuits which Marilla will make just before teatime. I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a busy two days of it. It's such a responsibility having a minister's family to tea. I never went through such an experience before. You should just see our pantry. It's a sight to behold. We're going to have jellied chicken and cold tongue. We're to have two kinds of jelly, red and yellow, and whipped cream and lemon pie, and cherry pie, and three kinds of cookies, and fruit cake, and Marilla's famous yellow plum preserves that she keeps especially for ministers, and pound cake and layer cake, and biscuits as aforesaid; and new bread and old both, in case the minister is dyspeptic and can't eat new. Mrs. Lynde says ministers are dyspeptic, but I don't think Mr. Allan has been a minister long enough for it to have had a bad effect on him. I just grow cold when I think of my layer cake. Oh, Diana, what if it shouldn't be good! I dreamed last night that I was chased all around by a fearful goblin with a big layer cake for a head." "It'll be good, all right," assured Diana, who was a very comfortable sort of friend. "I'm sure that piece of the one you made that we had for lunch in Idlewild two weeks ago was perfectly elegant." "Yes; but cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good," sighed Anne, setting a particularly well-balsamed twig afloat. "However, I suppose I shall just have to trust to Providence and be careful to put in the flour. Oh, look, Diana, what a lovely rainbow! Do you suppose the dryad will come out after we go away and take it for a scarf?" "You know there is no such thing as a dryad," said Diana. Diana's mother had found out about the Haunted Wood and had been decidedly angry over it. As a result Diana had abstained from any further imitative flights of imagination and did not think it prudent to cultivate a spirit of belief even in harmless dryads. "But it's so easy to imagine there is," said Anne. "Every night before I go to bed, I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"No, no!"
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Cecilia Jupe
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now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst
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of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray
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a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!"
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shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any
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from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying. "Good-bye, my dear!" said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth:
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him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying. "Good-bye, my dear!" said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!" The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy and its rolling eye, too soon lost the three figures and the basket in the darkness of the street. CHAPTER VII MRS. SPARSIT MR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an elderly lady presided over his establishment, in consideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit was this lady's name; and she was a prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Bounderby's car, as it rolled along in triumph with the Bully of humility inside. For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days, but was highly connected. She had a great aunt living in these very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been by the mother's side what Mrs. Sparsit still called "a Powler." Strangers of limited information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly
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head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much." The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said, "she will go!" "Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe," Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; "I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!" "When father comes back," cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute's silence, "how will he ever find me if I go away!" "You may be quite at ease," said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum: "you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr." "Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way." "Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping you against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known." "Well known," assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. "You're one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at prethent." There was another silence; and then she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, "Oh, give me my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!" The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes together it was soon done, for they were not many and to pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine's performance. He wanted nothing but his whip. The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying. "Good-bye, my dear!" said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!" The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy and its rolling eye, too soon lost the three figures and the basket in the darkness of the street. CHAPTER VII MRS. SPARSIT MR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an elderly lady presided over his establishment, in consideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit was this lady's name; and she was a prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Bounderby's car, as it rolled along in triumph with the Bully of humility inside. For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days, but was highly connected. She had a great aunt living in these very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been by the mother's side what Mrs. Sparsit still called "a Powler." Strangers of limited information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves which they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors' Court. The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother's side a Powler, married this lady, being by the father's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate appetite for butcher's meat, and a mysterious leg which had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a period when Sparsit was just of age, and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly supported on two long slim props, and surmounted by no head worth mentioning. He inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but owed it all before he came into it, and spent it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he did not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated soon after the honeymoon, in affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, fifteen years older than he, fell presently at deadly feud with her only relative, Lady Scadgers; and, partly to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain herself, went out at a salary. And here she was now, in her elderly days, with the Coriolanian style of nose and the dense black eyebrows which had captivated Sparsit, making Mr. Bounderby's tea as he took his breakfast. If Bounderby had been a Conqueror, and Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he took about as a feature in his state-processions, he could not have made a greater flourish with her than he habitually did. Just as it belonged to his boastfulness to depreciate his own extraction, so it belonged to it to exalt Mrs. Sparsit's. In the measure that he would not allow his own youth to have been attended by a single favourable circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit's juvenile career with every possible advantage, and showered waggon-loads of early roses all over that lady's path. "And yet, sir," he would say, "how does it turn out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled
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in silence, they brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether. "Now, Jupe," said Mr. Gradgrind. "If you are quite determined, come!" But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying. "Good-bye, my dear!" said Sleary. "You'll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn't have performed without hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!" With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. "There the ith, Thquire," he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, "and the'll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!" "Good-bye, Cecilia!" "Good-bye, Sissy!" "God bless you, dear!" In a variety of voices from all the room. But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with "Leave the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. Give it to me!"<|quote|>"No, no!"</|quote|>she said, in another burst of tears. "Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!" "Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you're grown up and married and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don't be croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mutht be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow," continued Sleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by so much talking; "they can't be alwayth a working, nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I know; but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!" The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy and its rolling eye, too soon lost the three figures and the basket in the darkness of the street. CHAPTER VII MRS. SPARSIT MR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an elderly lady presided over his establishment, in consideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit was this lady's name; and she was a prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Bounderby's car, as it rolled along in triumph with the Bully of humility inside. For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days, but was highly connected. She had a great aunt living in these very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been by the mother's side what Mrs. Sparsit still called "a Powler." Strangers of limited information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves which they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors' Court. The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother's side a Powler, married this lady, being by the father's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate appetite for butcher's meat, and a mysterious leg which had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen years) contrived the
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Hard Times
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"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."
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Elizabeth
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a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in
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lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to
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the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have
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owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He
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are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them
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must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other. The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to
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the order of the day." "Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other. The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teazing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her. On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former.--Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest spirits. They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again.--But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth. They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human nature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations of thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. CHAPTER XIII. "I hope, my dear," said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast the
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the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth.<|quote|>"Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."</|quote|>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and
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Pride And Prejudice
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grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,
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No speaker
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we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that
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I break his saw when we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her
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much milk like what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.” “He does n’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find fault with people.” “He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and get rough ones.” She had lost them already. After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She was out in the fields from sun-up until
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them ox to-morrow and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart.” His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know it’s awful hard work for break sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want.” Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. “That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.” “He does n’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find fault with people.” “He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and get rough ones.” She had lost them already. After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She was out in the fields from sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown up and had
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from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had been kept warm in the feathers. Ántonia and Ambrosch were talking in Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more ploughing that day. Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food. [Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field] Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: “You take them ox to-morrow and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart.” His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know it’s awful hard work for break sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want.” Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. “That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.” “He does n’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find fault with people.” “He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and get rough ones.” She had lost them already. After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She was out in the fields from sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some fellow get ahead in the world.” Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw
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going to grow up boastful like her mother, I wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her silence, and glancing up I saw that she was crying. She turned her face from me and looked off at the red streak of dying light, over the dark prairie. I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had come in from the north quarter, and was watering his oxen at the tank. Ántonia took my hand. “Sometime you will tell me all those nice things you learn at the school, won’t you, Jimmy?” she asked with a sudden rush of feeling in her voice. “My father, he went much to school. He know a great deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn and violin, and he read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to talk to him. You won’t forget my father, Jim?” “No,” I said, “I will never forget him.” Mrs. Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After Ambrosch and Ántonia had washed the field dust from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had been kept warm in the feathers. Ántonia and Ambrosch were talking in Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more ploughing that day. Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food. [Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field] Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: “You take them ox to-morrow and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart.” His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know it’s awful hard work for break sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want.” Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. “That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.” “He does n’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find fault with people.” “He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and get rough ones.” She had lost them already. After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She was out in the fields from sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some fellow get ahead in the world.” Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!” XVIII AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s death, Ambrosch was more than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as well as the fortunes of his women-folk. Ántonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar
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and the story got abroad that the Shimerdas kept their food in their feather beds. When the sun was dropping low, Ántonia came up the big south draw with her team. How much older she had grown in eight months! She had come to us a child, and now she was a tall, strong young girl, although her fifteenth birthday had just slipped by. I ran out and met her as she brought her horses up to the windmill to water them. She wore the boots her father had so thoughtfully taken off before he shot himself, and his old fur cap. Her outgrown cotton dress switched about her calves, over the boot-tops. She kept her sleeves rolled up all day, and her arms and throat were burned as brown as a sailor’s. Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like the bole of a tree out of the turf. One sees that draft-horse neck among the peasant women in all old countries. She greeted me gayly, and began at once to tell me how much ploughing she had done that day. Ambrosch, she said, was on the north quarter, breaking sod with the oxen. “Jim, you ask Jake how much he ploughed to-day. I don’t want that Jake get more done in one day than me. I want we have very much corn this fall.” While the horses drew in the water, and nosed each other, and then drank again, Ántonia sat down on the windmill step and rested her head on her hand. “You see the big prairie fire from your place last night? I hope your grandpa ain’t lose no stacks?” “No, we did n’t. I came to ask you something, Tony. Grandmother wants to know if you can’t go to the term of school that begins next week over at the sod schoolhouse. She says there’s a good teacher, and you’d learn a lot.” Ántonia stood up, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were stiff. “I ain’t got time to learn. I can work like mans now. My mother can’t say no more how Ambrosch do all and nobody to help him. I can work as much as him. School is all right for little boys. I help make this land one good farm.” She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I walked beside her, feeling vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful like her mother, I wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her silence, and glancing up I saw that she was crying. She turned her face from me and looked off at the red streak of dying light, over the dark prairie. I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had come in from the north quarter, and was watering his oxen at the tank. Ántonia took my hand. “Sometime you will tell me all those nice things you learn at the school, won’t you, Jimmy?” she asked with a sudden rush of feeling in her voice. “My father, he went much to school. He know a great deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn and violin, and he read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to talk to him. You won’t forget my father, Jim?” “No,” I said, “I will never forget him.” Mrs. Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After Ambrosch and Ántonia had washed the field dust from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had been kept warm in the feathers. Ántonia and Ambrosch were talking in Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more ploughing that day. Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food. [Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field] Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: “You take them ox to-morrow and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart.” His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know it’s awful hard work for break sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want.” Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. “That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.” “He does n’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find fault with people.” “He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and get rough ones.” She had lost them already. After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She was out in the fields from sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some fellow get ahead in the world.” Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!” XVIII AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s death, Ambrosch was more than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as well as the fortunes of his women-folk. Ántonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful blue morning. The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses along the roadside, and the larks, perched on last year’s dried sunflower stalks, were singing straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and their yellow breasts a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet gusts. We rode slowly, with a pleasant sense of Sunday indolence. We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and her mother were making garden, off across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. “Now, don’t you say you have n’t got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and if you ain’t a-going to look for it, I will.” Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. “This what you want?” he asked surlily. Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on
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boys. I help make this land one good farm.” She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I walked beside her, feeling vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful like her mother, I wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her silence, and glancing up I saw that she was crying. She turned her face from me and looked off at the red streak of dying light, over the dark prairie. I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had come in from the north quarter, and was watering his oxen at the tank. Ántonia took my hand. “Sometime you will tell me all those nice things you learn at the school, won’t you, Jimmy?” she asked with a sudden rush of feeling in her voice. “My father, he went much to school. He know a great deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn and violin, and he read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to talk to him. You won’t forget my father, Jim?” “No,” I said, “I will never forget him.” Mrs. Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After Ambrosch and Ántonia had washed the field dust from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had been kept warm in the feathers. Ántonia and Ambrosch were talking in Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more ploughing that day. Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food. [Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field] Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: “You take them ox to-morrow and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart.” His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know it’s awful hard work for break sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want.” Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. “That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.” “He does n’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find fault with people.” “He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,”<|quote|>grumbled Ambrosch. I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,</|quote|>“Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and get rough ones.” She had lost them already. After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She was out in the fields from sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some fellow get ahead in the world.” Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!” XVIII AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s death, Ambrosch was more than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as well as the fortunes of his women-folk. Ántonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful blue morning. The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses along the roadside, and the larks, perched on last year’s dried sunflower stalks, were singing straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and their yellow breasts a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet gusts. We rode slowly, with a pleasant sense of Sunday indolence. We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and her mother were making garden, off across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged
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My Antonia
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"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"
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Jake Barnes
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a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman."
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Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain
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people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well."
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sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well." "I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her." "She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know.
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out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well." "I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her." "She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?" "Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war." "She must have been just a kid then." "She's thirty-four now." "When did she marry Ashley?" "During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery." "You talk sort of bitter." "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." "I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love." "Well," I said. "She's done it twice." "I don't believe it."
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tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well." "I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her." "She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?" "Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war." "She must have been just a kid then." "She's thirty-four now." "When did she marry Ashley?" "During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery." "You talk sort of bitter." "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." "I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love." "Well," I said. "She's done it twice." "I don't believe it." "Well," I said, "don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't like the answers." "I didn't ask you that." "You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley." "I didn't ask you to insult her." "Oh, go to hell." He stood up from the table his face white, and stood there white and angry behind the little plates of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down," I said. "Don't be a fool." "You've got to take that back." "Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff." "Take it back." "Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?" "No. Not that. About me going to hell." "Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch." Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting things, Jake." "I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things." "I know it," Cohn said. "You're really about the best friend I have, Jake." God help you, I thought. "Forget what I said," I said out loud. "I'm sorry." "It's all right. It's fine. I
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the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Op ra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select." "I've meant to get over," said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well." "I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her." "She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?" "Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war." "She must have been just a kid then." "She's thirty-four now." "When did she marry Ashley?" "During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery." "You talk sort of bitter." "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." "I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love." "Well," I said. "She's done it twice." "I don't believe it." "Well," I said, "don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't like the answers." "I didn't ask you that." "You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley." "I didn't ask you to insult her." "Oh, go to hell." He stood up from the table his face white, and stood there white and angry behind the little plates of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down," I said. "Don't be a fool." "You've got to take that back." "Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff." "Take it back." "Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?" "No. Not that. About me going to hell." "Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch." Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting things, Jake." "I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things." "I know it," Cohn said. "You're really about the best friend I have, Jake." God help you, I thought. "Forget what I said," I said out loud. "I'm sorry." "It's all right. It's fine. I was just sore for a minute." "Good. Let's get something else to eat." After we finished the lunch we walked up to the Caf de la Paix and had coffee. I could feel Cohn wanted to bring up Brett again, but I held him off it. We talked about one thing and another, and I left him to come to the office. CHAPTER 6 At five o'clock I was in the Hotel Crillon waiting for Brett. She was not there, so I sat down and wrote some letters. They were not very good letters but I hoped their being on Crillon stationery would help them. Brett did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to the bar and had a Jack Rose with George the barman. Brett had not been in the bar either, and so I looked for her up-stairs on my way out, and took a taxi to the Caf Select. Crossing the Seine I saw a string of barges being towed empty down the current, riding high, the bargemen at the sweeps as they came toward the bridge. The river looked nice. It was always pleasant crossing bridges in Paris. The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P. L. M. between Fontainebleau and Montereau that always made me feel bored and dead and dull until it was over. I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what caf in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years
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anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said.<|quote|>"She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"</|quote|>"She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well." "I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her." "She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?" "Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war." "She must have been just a kid then." "She's thirty-four now." "When did she marry Ashley?" "During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery." "You talk sort of bitter." "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." "I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love." "Well," I said. "She's done it twice." "I don't believe it." "Well," I said, "don't ask me a
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The Sun Also Rises
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she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,
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No speaker
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last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me
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was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me at the station that you
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at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just
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Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back." "Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. "She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily
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I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E." "What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. "Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back." "Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. "She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old and she is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair would you keep me?" "No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it and your bag on the hall table." Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the
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thing that ever happened to me!" Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression. "Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." "Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." "Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E." "What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. "Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back." "Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. "She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old and she is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair would you keep me?" "No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it and your bag on the hall table." Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway at all. "You're not eating anything," said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. "I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?" "I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say," responded Marilla. "Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to _imagine_ you were in the depths of despair?" "No, I didn't." "Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's a very uncomfortable feeling indeed. When you try to eat a lump comes right up in your throat and you can't swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate caramel once two years ago and it was simply delicious. I've often dreamed since then that I had a lot of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I'm going to eat them. I do hope you won't be offended because I can't eat. Everything is extremely nice, but still I cannot eat." "I guess she's tired," said Matthew, who hadn't spoken since his return from
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to the ground. "What nice dreams they must have!" Then, holding tightly to the carpet-bag which contained "all her worldly goods," she followed him into the house. CHAPTER III. Marilla Cuthbert is Surprised |MARILLA came briskly forward as Matthew opened the door. But when her eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped short in amazement. "Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?" she ejaculated. "Where is the boy?" "There wasn't any boy," said Matthew wretchedly. "There was only _her_." He nodded at the child, remembering that he had never even asked her name. "No boy! But there _must_ have been a boy," insisted Marilla. "We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy." "Well, she didn't. She brought _her_. I asked the station-master. And I had to bring her home. She couldn't be left there, no matter where the mistake had come in." "Well, this is a pretty piece of business!" ejaculated Marilla. During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her precious carpet-bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. "You don't want me!" she cried. "You don't want me because I'm not a boy! I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears!" Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. "Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." "Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!" Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression. "Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." "Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." "Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E." "What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. "Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back." "Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. "She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old and she is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair would you keep me?" "No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it and your bag on the hall table." Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway at all. "You're not eating anything," said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. "I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?" "I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say," responded Marilla. "Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to _imagine_ you were in the depths of despair?" "No, I didn't." "Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's a very uncomfortable feeling indeed. When you try to eat a lump comes right up in your throat and you can't swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate caramel once two years ago and it was simply delicious. I've often dreamed since then that I had a lot of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I'm going to eat them. I do hope you won't be offended because I can't eat. Everything is extremely nice, but still I cannot eat." "I guess she's tired," said Matthew, who hadn't spoken since his return from the barn. "Best put her to bed, Marilla." Marilla had been wondering where Anne should be put to bed. She had prepared a couch in the kitchen chamber for the desired and expected boy. But, although it was neat and clean, it did not seem quite the thing to put a girl there somehow. But the spare room was out of the question for such a stray waif, so there remained only the east gable room. Marilla lighted a candle and told Anne to follow her, which Anne spiritlessly did, taking her hat and carpet-bag from the hall table as she passed. The hall was fearsomely clean; the little gable chamber in which she presently found herself seemed still cleaner. Marilla set the candle on a three-legged, three-cornered table and turned down the bedclothes. "I suppose you have a nightgown?" she questioned. Anne nodded. "Yes, I have two. The matron of the asylum made them for me. They're fearfully skimpy. There is never enough to go around in an asylum, so things are always skimpy--at least in a poor asylum like ours. I hate skimpy night-dresses. But one can dream just as well in them as in lovely trailing ones, with frills around the neck, that's one consolation." "Well, undress as quick as you can and go to bed. I'll come back in a few minutes for the candle. I daren't trust you to put it out yourself. You'd likely set the place on fire." When Marilla had gone Anne looked around her wistfully. The whitewashed walls were so painfully bare and staring that she thought they must ache over their own bareness. The floor was bare, too, except for a round braided mat in the middle such as Anne had never seen before. In one corner was the bed, a high, old-fashioned one, with four dark, low-turned posts. In the other corner was the aforesaid three-corner table adorned with a fat, red velvet pin-cushion hard enough to turn the point of the most adventurous pin. Above it hung a little six-by-eight mirror. Midway between table and bed was the window, with an icy white muslin frill over it, and opposite it was the wash-stand. The whole apartment was of a rigidity not to be described in words, but which sent a shiver to the very marrow of Anne's bones. With a sob she hastily discarded her garments, put on
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I'm going to burst into tears!" Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. "Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." "Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!" Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression. "Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." "Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." "Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E." "What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. "Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh,"<|quote|>she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew,</|quote|>"why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back." "Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. "She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old and she is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair would you keep me?" "No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it and your bag on the hall table." Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway at all. "You're not eating anything," said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. "I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?" "I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say," responded Marilla. "Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to _imagine_ you were in the depths of despair?" "No, I didn't." "Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's a very uncomfortable feeling indeed. When you try to eat a lump comes right up in your throat and you can't swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I had one
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Anne Of Green Gables
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There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.
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No speaker
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name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said
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else you'd have signed your name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing
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the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King
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"Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) "Please your Majesty," said the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." These were the verses the White Rabbit read:-- "They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word
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paper has just been picked up." "What's in it?" said the Queen. "I haven't opened it yet," said the White Rabbit, "but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody." "It must have been that," said the King, "unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know." "Who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. "It isn't directed at all," said the White Rabbit; "in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_." He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added "It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." "Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) "Please your Majesty," said the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." These were the verses the White Rabbit read:-- "They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don't let him know she liked
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meant," the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--important--" as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down "important," and some "unimportant." Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; "but it doesn't matter a bit," she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out "Silence!" and read out from his book, "Rule Forty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_." Everybody looked at Alice. "_I'm_ not a mile high," said Alice. "You are," said the King. "Nearly two miles high," added the Queen. "Well, I shan't go, at any rate," said Alice: "besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now." "It's the oldest rule in the book," said the King. "Then it ought to be Number One," said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. "Consider your verdict," he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. "There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty," said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; "this paper has just been picked up." "What's in it?" said the Queen. "I haven't opened it yet," said the White Rabbit, "but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody." "It must have been that," said the King, "unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know." "Who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. "It isn't directed at all," said the White Rabbit; "in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_." He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added "It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." "Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) "Please your Majesty," said the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." These were the verses the White Rabbit read:-- "They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me." "That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet," said the King, rubbing his hands; "so now let the jury--" "If any one of them can explain it," said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting him,) "I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it." The jury all wrote down on their slates, "_She_ doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it," but none of them attempted to explain the paper. "If there's no meaning in it," said the King, "that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And yet I don't know," he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; "I seem to see some meaning in them, after all." "--_said I could not swim_--" "you can't swim, can you?" he added, turning to the Knave. The Knave shook his head sadly. "Do I look like it?" he said. (Which he certainly did _not_, being
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little voice, the name "Alice!" CHAPTER XII. Alice's Evidence "Here!" cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. "Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!" she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. "The trial cannot proceed," said the King in a very grave voice, "until all the jurymen are back in their proper places--_all_," he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; "not that it signifies much," she said to herself; "I should think it would be _quite_ as much use in the trial one way up as the other." As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. "What do you know about this business?" the King said to Alice. "Nothing," said Alice. "Nothing _whatever?_" persisted the King. "Nothing whatever," said Alice. "That's very important," the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: "_Un_important, your Majesty means, of course," he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. "_Un_important, of course, I meant," the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, "important--unimportant--unimportant--important--" as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down "important," and some "unimportant." Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; "but it doesn't matter a bit," she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out "Silence!" and read out from his book, "Rule Forty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_." Everybody looked at Alice. "_I'm_ not a mile high," said Alice. "You are," said the King. "Nearly two miles high," added the Queen. "Well, I shan't go, at any rate," said Alice: "besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now." "It's the oldest rule in the book," said the King. "Then it ought to be Number One," said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. "Consider your verdict," he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. "There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty," said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; "this paper has just been picked up." "What's in it?" said the Queen. "I haven't opened it yet," said the White Rabbit, "but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody." "It must have been that," said the King, "unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know." "Who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. "It isn't directed at all," said the White Rabbit; "in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_." He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added "It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." "Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) "Please your Majesty," said the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." These were the verses the White Rabbit read:-- "They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me." "That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet," said the King, rubbing his hands; "so now let the jury--" "If any one of them can explain it," said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting him,) "I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it." The jury all wrote down on their slates, "_She_ doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it," but none of them attempted to explain the paper. "If there's no meaning in it," said the King, "that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And yet I don't know," he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; "I seem to see some meaning in them, after all." "--_said I could not swim_--" "you can't swim, can you?" he added, turning to the Knave. The Knave shook his head sadly. "Do I look like it?" he said. (Which he certainly did _not_, being made entirely of cardboard.) "All right, so far," said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: "'_We know it to be true_--' "that's the jury, of course-" -'_I gave her one, they gave him two_--' "why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know--" "But, it goes on" '_they all returned from him to you_,'" said Alice. "Why, there they are!" said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. "Nothing can be clearer than _that_. Then again--" '_before she had this fit_--' "you never had fits, my dear, I think?" he said to the Queen. "Never!" said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.) "Then the words don't _fit_ you," said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence. "It's a pun!" the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, "Let the jury consider their verdict," the King said, for about the twentieth time that day. "No, no!" said the Queen. "Sentence first--verdict afterwards." "Stuff and nonsense!" said Alice loudly. "The idea of having the sentence first!" "Hold your tongue!" said the Queen, turning purple. "I won't!" said Alice. "Off with her head!" the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved. "Who cares for you?" said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) "You're nothing but a pack of cards!" At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face. "Wake up, Alice dear!" said her sister; "Why, what a long sleep you've had!" "Oh, I've had such a curious dream!" said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when
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great hurry; "this paper has just been picked up." "What's in it?" said the Queen. "I haven't opened it yet," said the White Rabbit, "but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody." "It must have been that," said the King, "unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know." "Who is it directed to?" said one of the jurymen. "It isn't directed at all," said the White Rabbit; "in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_." He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added "It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses." "Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?" asked another of the jurymen. "No, they're not," said the White Rabbit, "and that's the queerest thing about it." (The jury all looked puzzled.) "He must have imitated somebody else's hand," said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) "Please your Majesty," said the Knave, "I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end." "If you didn't sign it," said the King, "that only makes the matter worse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man."<|quote|>There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.</|quote|>"That _proves_ his guilt," said the Queen. "It proves nothing of the sort!" said Alice. "Why, you don't even know what they're about!" "Read them," said the King. The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. "Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?" he asked. "Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." These were the verses the White Rabbit read:-- "They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me." "That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet," said the King, rubbing his hands; "so now let the jury--" "If any one of them can explain it," said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting him,) "I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"
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Mr. Elton
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the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of
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the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) "which made it
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odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one." "Donwell!" cried his wife.--" "My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) "which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very extraordinary!--And
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this wit seemed thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing. "When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one." "Donwell!" cried his wife.--" "My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) "which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?" Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable
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look. Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity. "Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?" Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing. "When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one." "Donwell!" cried his wife.--" "My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) "which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?" Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him. "I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward
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which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.--" "I do believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove." "Your parish there was small," said Jane. "Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject talked of." "But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children." "Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.--But hush!--not a word, if you please." It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look. Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity. "Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?" Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing. "When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one." "Donwell!" cried his wife.--" "My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) "which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?" Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him. "I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.--She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it." "I met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him.--William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose." Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins. She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out
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had been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.--After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said, "Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you." "What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?--That will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton's time is so engaged." "Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.--He really is engaged from morning to night.--There is no end of people's coming to him, on some pretence or other.--The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him.--" 'Upon my word, Mr. E.,' "I often say," 'rather you than I.--I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many applicants.'- "-Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree.--I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight.--However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all." And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma--" "A congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh! yes, quite indispensable." Miss Bates looked about her, so happily--! "He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep consultation.--Mr. E. is Knightley's right hand." Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, "Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk." "Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who lead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way." "Have not you mistaken the day?" said Emma. "I am almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr. Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday." "Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.--" "I do believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove." "Your parish there was small," said Jane. "Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject talked of." "But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children." "Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.--But hush!--not a word, if you please." It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look. Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity. "Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?" Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing. "When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one." "Donwell!" cried his wife.--" "My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) "which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?" Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him. "I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.--She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it." "I met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him.--William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose." Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins. She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say, "It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly correct.--I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent." "Oh!" cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure--" "there would have been no danger. The danger would have been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by expressing an interest--. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse," (speaking more collectedly,) "with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to--I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately--in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend--" "Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are," cried Emma warmly, and taking her hand. "You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even--" "You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.--So cold and artificial!--I had always a part to act.--It was a life of deceit!--I know that I must have disgusted you." "Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor?" "Very." "And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you--just as I begin to know you." "Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell." "Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps," replied Emma, smiling--" "but, excuse me, it must be thought of." The smile was returned as Jane
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to screen her words from Emma--" "A congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh! yes, quite indispensable." Miss Bates looked about her, so happily--! "He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep consultation.--Mr. E. is Knightley's right hand." Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, "Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk." "Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who lead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way." "Have not you mistaken the day?" said Emma. "I am almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr. Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday." "Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.--" "I do believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove." "Your parish there was small," said Jane. "Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject talked of." "But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children." "Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.--But hush!--not a word, if you please." It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look. Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity. "Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?" Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing. "When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one." "Donwell!" cried his wife.--" "My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."<|quote|>"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--"</|quote|>(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) "which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?" Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him. "I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.--She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it." "I met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him.--William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had
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Emma
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cried Marianne,
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No speaker
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"Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under
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been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this
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entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did
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slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother s arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. "And Sir
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with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother s arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. "And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" Here too, Miss Dashwood s commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children." "I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning." "I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons
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a share in what was passing. "John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window "He is full of monkey tricks." And soon afterwards, on the second boy s violently pinching one of the same lady s fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!" "And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet Never was there such a quiet little thing!" But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship s head dress slightly scratching the child s neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother s consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother s lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother s arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. "And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" Here too, Miss Dashwood s commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children." "I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning." "I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." "I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex." In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was. "Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele. "We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. "I think every one _must_ admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do."
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cousins, and they are my wife s, so you must be related." But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles to them. When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. "John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window "He is full of monkey tricks." And soon afterwards, on the second boy s violently pinching one of the same lady s fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!" "And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet Never was there such a quiet little thing!" But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship s head dress slightly scratching the child s neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother s consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother s lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother s arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. "And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" Here too, Miss Dashwood s commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children." "I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning." "I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." "I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex." In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was. "Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele. "We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. "I think every one _must_ admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do." "And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always." "But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?" "Nay, my dear, I m sure I don t pretend to say that there an t. I m sure there s a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can t bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there s Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?" "Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him." "Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men s being beaux they have something else to do." "Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux; you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture. This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better. Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with
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complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. "John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window "He is full of monkey tricks." And soon afterwards, on the second boy s violently pinching one of the same lady s fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!" "And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet Never was there such a quiet little thing!" But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship s head dress slightly scratching the child s neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother s consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother s lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother s arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how,"<|quote|>cried Marianne,</|quote|>"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. "And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" Here too, Miss Dashwood s commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children." "I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning." "I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." "I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex." In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was. "Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele. "We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. "I think every one _must_ admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do." "And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always." "But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?" "Nay, my dear, I m sure I don t pretend to say that there an
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Sense And Sensibility
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thought Alice;
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No speaker
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and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be
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the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be at school at once." However,
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try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I
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to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said "That's very curious." "It's all about as curious as it can be," said the Gryphon. "It all came different!" the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. "I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay
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"Explain all that," said the Mock Turtle. "No, no! The adventures first," said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: "explanations take such a dreadful time." So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so _very_ wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating "_You are old, Father William_," to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said "That's very curious." "It's all about as curious as it can be," said the Gryphon. "It all came different!" the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. "I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] "That's different from what _I_ used to say when I was a child," said the Gryphon. "Well, I never heard it before," said the Mock Turtle; "but it sounds uncommon nonsense." Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would _ever_ happen in a natural way again. "I should like to have it explained," said the Mock Turtle. "She can't explain it," said
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shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." "Wouldn't it really?" said Alice in a tone of great surprise. "Of course not," said the Mock Turtle: "why, if a fish came to _me_, and told me he was going a journey, I should say 'With what porpoise?'" "Don't you mean 'purpose'?" said Alice. "I mean what I say," the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added "Come, let's hear some of _your_ adventures." "I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly: "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." "Explain all that," said the Mock Turtle. "No, no! The adventures first," said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: "explanations take such a dreadful time." So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so _very_ wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating "_You are old, Father William_," to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said "That's very curious." "It's all about as curious as it can be," said the Gryphon. "It all came different!" the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. "I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] "That's different from what _I_ used to say when I was a child," said the Gryphon. "Well, I never heard it before," said the Mock Turtle; "but it sounds uncommon nonsense." Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would _ever_ happen in a natural way again. "I should like to have it explained," said the Mock Turtle. "She can't explain it," said the Gryphon hastily. "Go on with the next verse." "But about his toes?" the Mock Turtle persisted. "How _could_ he turn them out with his nose, you know?" "It's the first position in dancing." Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject. "Go on with the next verse," the Gryphon repeated impatiently: "it begins" '_I passed by his garden_.'" Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:-- "I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--" [later editions continued as follows The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat. When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, And concluded the banquet--] "What _is_ the use of repeating all that stuff," the Mock Turtle interrupted, "if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far the most confusing thing _I_ ever heard!" "Yes,
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not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise." "Wouldn't it really?" said Alice in a tone of great surprise. "Of course not," said the Mock Turtle: "why, if a fish came to _me_, and told me he was going a journey, I should say 'With what porpoise?'" "Don't you mean 'purpose'?" said Alice. "I mean what I say," the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added "Come, let's hear some of _your_ adventures." "I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly: "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." "Explain all that," said the Mock Turtle. "No, no! The adventures first," said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: "explanations take such a dreadful time." So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so _very_ wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating "_You are old, Father William_," to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said "That's very curious." "It's all about as curious as it can be," said the Gryphon. "It all came different!" the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. "I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] "That's different from what _I_ used to say when I was a child," said the Gryphon. "Well, I never heard it before," said the Mock Turtle; "but it sounds uncommon nonsense." Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would _ever_ happen in a natural way again. "I should like to have it explained," said the Mock Turtle. "She can't explain it," said the Gryphon hastily. "Go on with the next verse." "But about his toes?" the Mock Turtle persisted. "How _could_ he turn them out with his nose, you know?" "It's the first position in dancing." Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject. "Go on with the next verse," the Gryphon repeated impatiently: "it begins" '_I passed by his garden_.'" Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:-- "I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--" [later editions continued as follows The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat. When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, And concluded the banquet--] "What _is_ the use of repeating all that stuff," the Mock Turtle interrupted, "if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far the most confusing thing _I_ ever heard!" "Yes, I think you'd better leave off," said the Gryphon: and Alice was only too glad to do so. "Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?" the Gryphon went on. "Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?" "Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind," Alice replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, "Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her '_Turtle Soup_,' will you, old fellow?" The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:-- "Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!" "Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two p ennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!" "Chorus again!" cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of "The trial's beginning!" was heard in the distance. "Come on!" cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song. "What trial is it?" Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only answered "Come on!" and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:-- "Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!" CHAPTER XI. Who Stole the Tarts? The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--" "I wish they'd get the trial done," she thought, "and hand round the refreshments!" But there
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he was going a journey, I should say 'With what porpoise?'" "Don't you mean 'purpose'?" said Alice. "I mean what I say," the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added "Come, let's hear some of _your_ adventures." "I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly: "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." "Explain all that," said the Mock Turtle. "No, no! The adventures first," said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: "explanations take such a dreadful time." So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so _very_ wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating "_You are old, Father William_," to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said "That's very curious." "It's all about as curious as it can be," said the Gryphon. "It all came different!" the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. "I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin." He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice. "Stand up and repeat ''_Tis the voice of the sluggard_,'" said the Gryphon. "How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!"<|quote|>thought Alice;</|quote|>"I might as well be at school at once." However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:-- "'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair." As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes." [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] "That's different from what _I_ used to say when I was a child," said the Gryphon. "Well, I never heard it before," said the Mock Turtle; "but it sounds uncommon nonsense." Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would _ever_ happen in a natural way again. "I should like to have it explained," said the Mock Turtle. "She can't explain it," said the Gryphon hastily. "Go on with the next verse." "But about his toes?" the Mock Turtle persisted. "How _could_ he turn them out with his nose, you know?" "It's the first position in dancing." Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject. "Go on with the next verse," the Gryphon repeated impatiently: "it begins" '_I passed by his garden_.'" Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:-- "I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--" [later editions continued as follows The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat. When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, And concluded the banquet--] "What _is_ the use of repeating all that stuff," the Mock Turtle interrupted, "if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far the most confusing thing _I_ ever heard!" "Yes, I think you'd better leave off," said the Gryphon: and Alice was only too glad to do so. "Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?" the Gryphon went on. "Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?" "Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind," Alice replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, "Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her '_Turtle Soup_,' will you, old fellow?" The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:-- "Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!" "Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two p ennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."
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Mrs. Moore
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perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable
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They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully.
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it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask
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finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy." "Probably she's heard tales of the heat, but of course I should pack her off to the Hills every April I'm not one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains." "Oh, it wouldn't be the weather." "There's nothing in India but the
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'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy." "Probably she's heard tales of the heat, but of course I should pack her off to the Hills every April I'm not one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains." "Oh, it wouldn't be the weather." "There's nothing in India but the weather, my dear mother; it's the Alpha and Omega of the whole affair." "Yes, as Mr. McBryde was saying, but it's much more the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on Adela's nerves. She doesn't think they behave pleasantly to Indians, you see." "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed, losing his gentle manner. "I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman to worry over a side-issue!" She forgot about Adela in her surprise. "A side-issue, a side-issue?" she repeated. "How can it be that?" "We're not out here for the purpose of behaving pleasantly!" "What do
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never get like that," she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy." "Probably she's heard tales of the heat, but of course I should pack her off to the Hills every April I'm not one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains." "Oh, it wouldn't be the weather." "There's nothing in India but the weather, my dear mother; it's the Alpha and Omega of the whole affair." "Yes, as Mr. McBryde was saying, but it's much more the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on Adela's nerves. She doesn't think they behave pleasantly to Indians, you see." "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed, losing his gentle manner. "I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman to worry over a side-issue!" She forgot about Adela in her surprise. "A side-issue, a side-issue?" she repeated. "How can it be that?" "We're not out here for the purpose of behaving pleasantly!" "What do you mean?" "What I say. We're out here to do justice and keep the peace. Them's my sentiments. India isn't a drawing-room." "Your sentiments are those of a god," she said quietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her. Trying to recover his temper, he said, "India likes gods." "And Englishmen like posing as gods." "There's no point in all this. Here we are, and we're going to stop, and the country's got to put up with us, gods or no gods. Oh, look here," he broke out, rather pathetically, "what do you and Adela want me to do? Go against my class, against all the people I respect and admire out here? Lose such power as I have for doing good in this country because my behaviour isn't pleasant? You neither of you understand what work is, or you 'ld never talk such eyewash. I hate talking like this, but one must occasionally. It's morbidly sensitive to go on as Adela and you do. I noticed you both at the club to-day after the Burra Sahib had been at all that trouble to amuse you. I am out here to work, mind, to hold
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too?" "Mrs. Moore says he is so nice." "Very well, Miss Quested. Will Thursday suit you?" "Indeed it will, and that morning we go to this Indian lady's. All the nice things are coming Thursday." "I won't ask the City Magistrate to bring you. I know he'll be busy at that time." "Yes, Ronny is always hard-worked," she replied, contemplating the hills. How lovely they suddenly were! But she couldn't touch them. In front, like a shutter, fell a vision of her married life. She and Ronny would look into the club like this every evening, then drive home to dress; they would see the Lesleys and the Callendars and the Turtons and the Burtons, and invite them and be invited by them, while the true India slid by unnoticed. Colour would remain the pageant of birds in the early morning, brown bodies, white turbans, idols whose flesh was scarlet or blue and movement would remain as long as there were crowds in the bazaar and bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dogcart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind colour and movement would escape her even more effectually than it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others. "I should never get like that," she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy." "Probably she's heard tales of the heat, but of course I should pack her off to the Hills every April I'm not one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains." "Oh, it wouldn't be the weather." "There's nothing in India but the weather, my dear mother; it's the Alpha and Omega of the whole affair." "Yes, as Mr. McBryde was saying, but it's much more the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on Adela's nerves. She doesn't think they behave pleasantly to Indians, you see." "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed, losing his gentle manner. "I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman to worry over a side-issue!" She forgot about Adela in her surprise. "A side-issue, a side-issue?" she repeated. "How can it be that?" "We're not out here for the purpose of behaving pleasantly!" "What do you mean?" "What I say. We're out here to do justice and keep the peace. Them's my sentiments. India isn't a drawing-room." "Your sentiments are those of a god," she said quietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her. Trying to recover his temper, he said, "India likes gods." "And Englishmen like posing as gods." "There's no point in all this. Here we are, and we're going to stop, and the country's got to put up with us, gods or no gods. Oh, look here," he broke out, rather pathetically, "what do you and Adela want me to do? Go against my class, against all the people I respect and admire out here? Lose such power as I have for doing good in this country because my behaviour isn't pleasant? You neither of you understand what work is, or you 'ld never talk such eyewash. I hate talking like this, but one must occasionally. It's morbidly sensitive to go on as Adela and you do. I noticed you both at the club to-day after the Burra Sahib had been at all that trouble to amuse you. I am out here to work, mind, to hold this wretched country by force. I'm not a missionary or a Labour Member or a vague sentimental sympathetic literary man. I'm just a servant of the Government; it's the profession you wanted me to choose myself, and that's that. We're not pleasant in India, and we don't intend to be pleasant. We've something more important to do." He spoke sincerely. Every day he worked hard in the court trying to decide which of two untrue accounts was the less untrue, trying to dispense justice fearlessly, to protect the weak against the less weak, the incoherent against the plausible, surrounded by lies and flattery. That morning he had convicted a railway clerk of overcharging pilgrims for their tickets, and a Pathan of attempted rape. He expected no gratitude, no recognition for this, and both clerk and Pathan might appeal, bribe their witnesses more effectually in the interval, and get their sentences reversed. It was his duty. But he did expect sympathy from his own people, and except from new-comers he obtained it. He did think he ought not to be worried about "Bridge Parties" when the day's work was over and he wanted to play tennis with his equals or rest his legs upon a long chair. He spoke sincerely, but she could have wished with less gusto. How Ronny revelled in the drawbacks of his situation! How he did rub it in that he was not in India to behave pleasantly, and derived positive satisfaction therefrom! He reminded her of his public-schooldays. The traces of young-man humanitarianism had sloughed off, and he talked like an intelligent and embittered boy. His words without his voice might have impressed her, but when she heard the self-satisfied lilt of them, when she saw the mouth moving so complacently and competently beneath the little red nose, she felt, quite illogically, that this was not the last word on India. One touch of regret not the canny substitute but the true regret from the heart would have made him a different man, and the British Empire a different institution. "I'm going to argue, and indeed dictate," she said, clinking her rings. "The English are out here to be pleasant." "How do you make that out, mother?" he asked, speaking gently again, for he was ashamed of his irritability. "Because India is part of the earth. And God has put us on the earth in order
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like that," she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort."<|quote|>"I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual."</|quote|>"I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy." "Probably she's heard tales of the heat, but of course I should pack her off to the Hills every April I'm not one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains." "Oh, it wouldn't be the weather." "There's nothing in India but the weather, my dear mother; it's the Alpha and Omega of the whole affair." "Yes, as Mr. McBryde was saying, but it's much more the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on Adela's nerves. She doesn't think they behave pleasantly to Indians, you see." "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed, losing his gentle manner. "I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman to worry over a side-issue!" She forgot about Adela in her surprise. "A side-issue, a side-issue?" she repeated. "How can it be that?" "We're not out here for the purpose of behaving pleasantly!" "What do you mean?" "What I say. We're out here to do justice and keep the peace. Them's my sentiments. India isn't a drawing-room." "Your sentiments are those of a god," she said quietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her. Trying to recover his temper, he said, "India likes gods." "And Englishmen
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A Passage To India
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"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."
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Mr. Sherlock Holmes
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glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there,"
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shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not
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work in the Jefferson Hope case." "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of A Study in Scarlet." He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with the facts." "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to
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as an expert, and pronounce a specialist s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case." "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of A Study in Scarlet." He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with the facts." "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it." I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his
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I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world." "The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths which, by the way, is their normal state the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case." "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of A Study in Scarlet." He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with the facts." "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it." I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion s quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather. "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes, after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by Fran ois Le
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said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment." "But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable." He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation. "My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world." "The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths which, by the way, is their normal state the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case." "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of A Study in Scarlet." He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with the facts." "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it." I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion s quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather. "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes, after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by Fran ois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance." He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray "magnifiques," "coup-de-ma tres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman. "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I. "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in
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Chapter I The Science of Deduction Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction. Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him. Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer. "Which is it to-day?" I asked, "morphine or cocaine?" He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened. "It is cocaine," he said, "a seven-per-cent. solution. Would you care to try it?" "No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it." He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment." "But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable." He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation. "My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world." "The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths which, by the way, is their normal state the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case." "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of A Study in Scarlet." He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with the facts." "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it." I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion s quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather. "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes, after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by Fran ois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance." He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray "magnifiques," "coup-de-ma tres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman. "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I. "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now translating my small works into French." "Your works?" "Oh, didn t you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty of several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is one Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccoes. In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is continually turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff of bird s-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato." "You have an extraordinary genius for minuti ," I remarked. "I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest to the scientific detective, especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my hobby." "Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation and deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other." "Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his arm-chair, and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there you dispatched a telegram." "Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don t see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned it to no one." "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at
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that I speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable." He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation. "My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world." "The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths which, by the way, is their normal state the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case." "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of A Study in Scarlet." He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.<|quote|>"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."</|quote|>"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with the facts." "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it." I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion s quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather. "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes, after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by Fran ois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance." He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray "magnifiques," "coup-de-ma tres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman. "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I. "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now translating my small works into French." "Your works?" "Oh, didn t you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty of several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is one Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccoes. In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is continually turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff of bird s-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."
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The Sign Of The Four
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murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:
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No speaker
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Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment
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the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t
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So one kissed Paul." "That s brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I ve thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t
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even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--" "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." "That s brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I ve thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them.
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life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--" She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes hadn t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--" "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." "That s brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I ve thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. "I didn t think of it," she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought
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out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox s faults. He s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn t sympathy really. I d even say" "--she looked at the shining lagoons--" "that, spiritually, he s not as honest as I am. Doesn t that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn t," said Helen. "It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad." Margaret made a movement of irritation. "I don t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life--good heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn t, and shall never, understand." Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--" She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes hadn t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--" "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." "That s brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I ve thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. "I didn t think of it," she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so much to settle." "I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?" "With your brother?" "Yes, during cigarettes." "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can t we go there for our honeymoon?" "What to do?" "To eat the currants. And isn t there marvellous scenery?" "Moderately, but it s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady." "Why not?" "No hotels." "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?" "I wasn t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do
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defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can t help any more than we can. You know--at least, I know in my own case--when a man has said to me, So-and-so s a pretty girl, I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It s a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn t only this in Mr. Wilcox s case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally. "But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?" "But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. "That s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we ve often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be prose. I m not running it down--a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox s faults. He s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn t sympathy really. I d even say" "--she looked at the shining lagoons--" "that, spiritually, he s not as honest as I am. Doesn t that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn t," said Helen. "It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad." Margaret made a movement of irritation. "I don t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life--good heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn t, and shall never, understand." Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--" She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes hadn t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--" "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." "That s brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I ve thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. "I didn t think of it," she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so much to settle." "I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?" "With your brother?" "Yes, during cigarettes." "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can t we go there for our honeymoon?" "What to do?" "To eat the currants. And isn t there marvellous scenery?" "Moderately, but it s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady." "Why not?" "No hotels." "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?" "I wasn t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again." She said more gravely: "You haven t found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?" "No." "Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends." "Your sister and I have always hit it off," he said negligently. "But we re drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill." "Dolly s uncle." "Exactly. The girl s madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, but he demands--and rightly--a suitable provision with her. And in the second place you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and increasing expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just now, though capable of development." "Poor fellow!" murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not understanding. "Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will have Howards End; but I am anxious, in my own happiness, not to be unjust to others." "Of course not," she began, and then gave a little cry. "you mean money. How stupid I am! Of course not!" Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. "Yes, Money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined to be just to all--just to you, just to them. I am determined that my children shall have me." "Be generous to them," she said sharply. "Bother justice!" "I am determined--and have already written to Charles to that effect--" "But how much have you got?" "What?" "How much have you a year? I ve six hundred." "My income?" "Yes. We must begin with how much you have, before we can settle how much you can give Charles. Justice, and even generosity, depend on that." "I must say you re a downright young woman," he observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. "What a question to spring on a fellow!" "Don t you know your income? Or don t you want to tell it me?" "I--" "That s all right" "--now she patted him--" "don t tell me. I don t want to know. I can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to Charles, how many to Paul?" "The fact
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her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--" She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes hadn t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--" "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." "That s brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I ve thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something,"<|quote|>murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn t care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:</|quote|>"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can t be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don t know about that; I shouldn t like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. "I didn t think of it," she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "--a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the thought flew away into darkness. "I was thinking, if you didn t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so much to settle." "I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?" "With your brother?" "Yes, during cigarettes." "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby s only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can t we go there for our honeymoon?" "What to do?" "To eat the currants. And isn t there marvellous scenery?" "Moderately, but it s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady." "Why not?" "No hotels." "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?" "I wasn t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again." She said more gravely: "You haven t found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?" "No." "Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends." "Your sister and I have always hit it off," he said negligently. "But we re drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill." "Dolly s uncle." "Exactly. The girl s madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, but he demands--and rightly--a suitable provision with her. And in the second place you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and increasing expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just now, though capable of development." "Poor fellow!" murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not understanding. "Charles being the elder son, some day Charles
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Howards End
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"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"
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Young Thomas
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governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at
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myself; no thanks to the governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. "Girls can
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serious; I am indeed!" He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone, "Oh! I have picked up a little since. I don't deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. "Girls can always get on, somehow." "Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister," observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of
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say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby's, I was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life, than any oyster does." "Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke's a joke." "Upon my soul!" said the whelp. "I am serious; I am indeed!" He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone, "Oh! I have picked up a little since. I don't deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. "Girls can always get on, somehow." "Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister," observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out. "Mother Sparsit!" said Tom. "What! you have seen her already, have you?" His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several
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She can shut herself up within herself, and think as I have often known her sit and watch the fire for an hour at a stretch." "Ay, ay? Has resources of her own," said Harthouse, smoking quietly. "Not so much of that as you may suppose," returned Tom; "for our governor had her crammed with all sorts of dry bones and sawdust. It's his system." "Formed his daughter on his own model?" suggested Harthouse. "His daughter? Ah! and everybody else. Why, he formed Me that way!" said Tom. "Impossible!" "He did, though," said Tom, shaking his head. "I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby's, I was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life, than any oyster does." "Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke's a joke." "Upon my soul!" said the whelp. "I am serious; I am indeed!" He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone, "Oh! I have picked up a little since. I don't deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. "Girls can always get on, somehow." "Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister," observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out. "Mother Sparsit!" said Tom. "What! you have seen her already, have you?" His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times with his finger. "Mother Sparsit's feeling for Loo is more than admiration, I should think," said Tom. "Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when he was a bachelor. Oh no!" These were the last words spoken by the whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete oblivion. He was roused from the latter state by an uneasy dream of being stirred up with a boot, and also of a voice saying: "Come, it's late. Be off!" "Well!" he said, scrambling from the sofa. "I must take my leave of you
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was obliged to go on. "_I_ persuaded her," he said, with an edifying air of superiority. "I was stuck into old Bounderby's bank (where I never wanted to be), and I knew I should get into scrapes there, if she put old Bounderby's pipe out; so I told her my wishes, and she came into them. She would do anything for me. It was very game of her, wasn't it?" "It was charming, Tom!" "Not that it was altogether so important to her as it was to me," continued Tom coolly, "because my liberty and comfort, and perhaps my getting on, depended on it; and she had no other lover, and staying at home was like staying in jail especially when I was gone. It wasn't as if she gave up another lover for old Bounderby; but still it was a good thing in her." "Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so placidly." "Oh," returned Tom, with contemptuous patronage, "she's a regular girl. A girl can get on anywhere. She has settled down to the life, and _she_ don't mind. It does just as well as another. Besides, though Loo is a girl, she's not a common sort of girl. She can shut herself up within herself, and think as I have often known her sit and watch the fire for an hour at a stretch." "Ay, ay? Has resources of her own," said Harthouse, smoking quietly. "Not so much of that as you may suppose," returned Tom; "for our governor had her crammed with all sorts of dry bones and sawdust. It's his system." "Formed his daughter on his own model?" suggested Harthouse. "His daughter? Ah! and everybody else. Why, he formed Me that way!" said Tom. "Impossible!" "He did, though," said Tom, shaking his head. "I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby's, I was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life, than any oyster does." "Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke's a joke." "Upon my soul!" said the whelp. "I am serious; I am indeed!" He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone, "Oh! I have picked up a little since. I don't deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. "Girls can always get on, somehow." "Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister," observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out. "Mother Sparsit!" said Tom. "What! you have seen her already, have you?" His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times with his finger. "Mother Sparsit's feeling for Loo is more than admiration, I should think," said Tom. "Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when he was a bachelor. Oh no!" These were the last words spoken by the whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete oblivion. He was roused from the latter state by an uneasy dream of being stirred up with a boot, and also of a voice saying: "Come, it's late. Be off!" "Well!" he said, scrambling from the sofa. "I must take my leave of you though. I say. Yours is very good tobacco. But it's too mild." "Yes, it's too mild," returned his entertainer. "It's it's ridiculously mild," said Tom. "Where's the door! Good night!" He had another odd dream of being taken by a waiter through a mist, which, after giving him some trouble and difficulty, resolved itself into the main street, in which he stood alone. He then walked home pretty easily, though not yet free from an impression of the presence and influence of his new friend as if he were lounging somewhere in the air, in the same negligent attitude, regarding him with the same look. The whelp went home, and went to bed. If he had had any sense of what he had done that night, and had been less of a whelp and more of a brother, he might have turned short on the road, might have gone down to the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, might have gone to bed in it for good and all, and have curtained his head for ever with its filthy waters. CHAPTER IV MEN AND BROTHERS "OH, my friends, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown! Oh, my friends and fellow-countrymen, the slaves
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cooling drink. James Harthouse continued to lounge in the same place and attitude, smoking his cigar in his own easy way, and looking pleasantly at the whelp, as if he knew himself to be a kind of agreeable demon who had only to hover over him, and he must give up his whole soul if required. It certainly did seem that the whelp yielded to this influence. He looked at his companion sneakingly, he looked at him admiringly, he looked at him boldly, and put up one leg on the sofa. "My sister Loo?" said Tom. "_She_ never cared for old Bounderby." "That's the past tense, Tom," returned Mr. James Harthouse, striking the ash from his cigar with his little finger. "We are in the present tense, now." "Verb neuter, not to care. Indicative mood, present tense. First person singular, I do not care; second person singular, thou dost not care; third person singular, she does not care," returned Tom. "Good! Very quaint!" said his friend. "Though you don't mean it." "But I _do_ mean it," cried Tom. "Upon my honour! Why, you won't tell me, Mr. Harthouse, that you really suppose my sister Loo does care for old Bounderby." "My dear fellow," returned the other, "what am I bound to suppose, when I find two married people living in harmony and happiness?" Tom had by this time got both his legs on the sofa. If his second leg had not been already there when he was called a dear fellow, he would have put it up at that great stage of the conversation. Feeling it necessary to do something then, he stretched himself out at greater length, and, reclining with the back of his head on the end of the sofa, and smoking with an infinite assumption of negligence, turned his common face, and not too sober eyes, towards the face looking down upon him so carelessly yet so potently. "You know our governor, Mr. Harthouse," said Tom, "and therefore, you needn't be surprised that Loo married old Bounderby. She never had a lover, and the governor proposed old Bounderby, and she took him." "Very dutiful in your interesting sister," said Mr. James Harthouse. "Yes, but she wouldn't have been as dutiful, and it would not have come off as easily," returned the whelp, "if it hadn't been for me." The tempter merely lifted his eyebrows; but the whelp was obliged to go on. "_I_ persuaded her," he said, with an edifying air of superiority. "I was stuck into old Bounderby's bank (where I never wanted to be), and I knew I should get into scrapes there, if she put old Bounderby's pipe out; so I told her my wishes, and she came into them. She would do anything for me. It was very game of her, wasn't it?" "It was charming, Tom!" "Not that it was altogether so important to her as it was to me," continued Tom coolly, "because my liberty and comfort, and perhaps my getting on, depended on it; and she had no other lover, and staying at home was like staying in jail especially when I was gone. It wasn't as if she gave up another lover for old Bounderby; but still it was a good thing in her." "Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so placidly." "Oh," returned Tom, with contemptuous patronage, "she's a regular girl. A girl can get on anywhere. She has settled down to the life, and _she_ don't mind. It does just as well as another. Besides, though Loo is a girl, she's not a common sort of girl. She can shut herself up within herself, and think as I have often known her sit and watch the fire for an hour at a stretch." "Ay, ay? Has resources of her own," said Harthouse, smoking quietly. "Not so much of that as you may suppose," returned Tom; "for our governor had her crammed with all sorts of dry bones and sawdust. It's his system." "Formed his daughter on his own model?" suggested Harthouse. "His daughter? Ah! and everybody else. Why, he formed Me that way!" said Tom. "Impossible!" "He did, though," said Tom, shaking his head. "I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby's, I was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life, than any oyster does." "Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke's a joke." "Upon my soul!" said the whelp. "I am serious; I am indeed!" He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone, "Oh! I have picked up a little since. I don't deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. "Girls can always get on, somehow." "Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister," observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out. "Mother Sparsit!" said Tom. "What! you have seen her already, have you?" His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times with his finger. "Mother Sparsit's feeling for Loo is more than admiration, I should think," said Tom. "Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when he was a bachelor. Oh no!" These were the last words spoken by the whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete oblivion. He was roused from the latter state by an uneasy dream of being stirred up with a boot, and also of a voice saying: "Come, it's late. Be off!" "Well!" he said, scrambling from the sofa. "I must take my leave of you though. I say. Yours is very good tobacco. But it's too mild." "Yes, it's too mild," returned his entertainer. "It's it's ridiculously mild," said Tom. "Where's the door! Good night!" He had another odd dream of being taken by a waiter through a mist, which, after giving him some trouble and difficulty, resolved itself into the main street, in which he stood alone. He then walked home pretty easily, though not yet free from an impression of the presence and influence of his new friend as if he were lounging somewhere in the air, in the same negligent attitude, regarding him with the same look. The whelp went home, and went to bed. If he had had any sense of what he had done that night, and had been less of a whelp and more of a brother, he might have turned short on the road, might have gone down to the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, might have gone to bed in it for good and all, and have curtained his head for ever with its filthy waters. CHAPTER IV MEN AND BROTHERS "OH, my friends, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown! Oh, my friends and fellow-countrymen, the slaves of an iron-handed and a grinding despotism! Oh, my friends and fellow-sufferers, and fellow-workmen, and fellow-men! I tell you that the hour is come, when we must rally round one another as One united power, and crumble into dust the oppressors that too long have battened upon the plunder of our families, upon the sweat of our brows, upon the labour of our hands, upon the strength of our sinews, upon the God-created glorious rights of Humanity, and upon the holy and eternal privileges of Brotherhood!" "Good!" "Hear, hear, hear!" "Hurrah!" and other cries, arose in many voices from various parts of the densely crowded and suffocatingly close Hall, in which the orator, perched on a stage, delivered himself of this and what other froth and fume he had in him. He had declaimed himself into a violent heat, and was as hoarse as he was hot. By dint of roaring at the top of his voice under a flaring gaslight, clenching his fists, knitting his brows, setting his teeth, and pounding with his arms, he had taken so much out of himself by this time, that he was brought to a stop, and called for a glass of water. As he stood there, trying to quench his fiery face with his drink of water, the comparison between the orator and the crowd of attentive faces turned towards him, was extremely to his disadvantage. Judging him by Nature's evidence, he was above the mass in very little but the stage on which he stood. In many great respects he was essentially below them. He was not so honest, he was not so manly, he was not so good-humoured; he substituted cunning for their simplicity, and passion for their safe solid sense. An ill-made, high-shouldered man, with lowering brows, and his features crushed into an habitually sour expression, he contrasted most unfavourably, even in his mongrel dress, with the great body of his hearers in their plain working clothes. Strange as it always is to consider any assembly in the act of submissively resigning itself to the dreariness of some complacent person, lord or commoner, whom three-fourths of it could, by no human means, raise out of the slough of inanity to their own intellectual level, it was particularly strange, and it was even particularly affecting, to see this crowd of earnest faces, whose honesty in the main no competent observer
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it hadn't been for me." The tempter merely lifted his eyebrows; but the whelp was obliged to go on. "_I_ persuaded her," he said, with an edifying air of superiority. "I was stuck into old Bounderby's bank (where I never wanted to be), and I knew I should get into scrapes there, if she put old Bounderby's pipe out; so I told her my wishes, and she came into them. She would do anything for me. It was very game of her, wasn't it?" "It was charming, Tom!" "Not that it was altogether so important to her as it was to me," continued Tom coolly, "because my liberty and comfort, and perhaps my getting on, depended on it; and she had no other lover, and staying at home was like staying in jail especially when I was gone. It wasn't as if she gave up another lover for old Bounderby; but still it was a good thing in her." "Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so placidly." "Oh," returned Tom, with contemptuous patronage, "she's a regular girl. A girl can get on anywhere. She has settled down to the life, and _she_ don't mind. It does just as well as another. Besides, though Loo is a girl, she's not a common sort of girl. She can shut herself up within herself, and think as I have often known her sit and watch the fire for an hour at a stretch." "Ay, ay? Has resources of her own," said Harthouse, smoking quietly. "Not so much of that as you may suppose," returned Tom; "for our governor had her crammed with all sorts of dry bones and sawdust. It's his system." "Formed his daughter on his own model?" suggested Harthouse. "His daughter? Ah! and everybody else. Why, he formed Me that way!" said Tom. "Impossible!" "He did, though," said Tom, shaking his head. "I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby's, I was as flat as a warming-pan, and knew no more about life, than any oyster does." "Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke's a joke." "Upon my soul!" said the whelp. "I am serious; I am indeed!" He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone, "Oh! I have picked up a little since. I don't deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor." "And your intelligent sister?"<|quote|>"My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don't see how she is to have got over that since. But _she_ don't mind,"</|quote|>he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. "Girls can always get on, somehow." "Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister," observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out. "Mother Sparsit!" said Tom. "What! you have seen her already, have you?" His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times with his finger. "Mother Sparsit's feeling for Loo is more than admiration, I should think," said Tom. "Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when he was a bachelor. Oh no!" These were the last words spoken by the whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete oblivion. He was roused from the latter state by an uneasy dream of being stirred up with a boot, and also of a voice saying: "Come, it's late. Be off!" "Well!" he said, scrambling from the sofa. "I must take my leave of you though. I say. Yours is very good tobacco. But it's too mild." "Yes, it's too mild," returned his entertainer. "It's it's ridiculously mild," said Tom. "Where's the door! Good night!" He had another odd dream of being taken by a waiter through a mist, which, after giving him some trouble and difficulty, resolved itself into the main street, in which he stood alone. He then walked home pretty easily, though not yet free from an impression of the presence and influence of his new friend as if he were lounging somewhere in the air, in the same negligent attitude, regarding him with the same look. The whelp went home, and went to bed. If he had had any sense of what he had done that night, and had been less of a whelp and more of a brother, he might have turned short on the road, might have gone down to the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, might have gone to bed in it for good and
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Hard Times
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said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.
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No speaker
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all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said,
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sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour
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to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you
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must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me,"
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and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune." She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, coolly enough. "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto s. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?" "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and
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Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the cab. She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure coloured her pale cheeks. "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What news have you brought me?" "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune." She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, coolly enough. "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto s. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?" "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are
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to overhaul her." "All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But I certainly did not know that the _Aurora_ was such a clipper." "Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should never have caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood business." "Neither he did," cried our prisoner, "not a word. I chose his launch because I heard that she was a flier. We told him nothing, but we paid him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached our vessel, the _Esmeralda_, at Gravesend, outward bound for the Brazils." "Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes to him. If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick in condemning them." It was amusing to notice how the consequential Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of the capture. From the slight smile which played over Sherlock Holmes s face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon him. "We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall land you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box. I need hardly tell you that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing this. It is most irregular; but of course an agreement is an agreement. I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector with you, since you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no doubt?" "Yes, I shall drive." "It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first. You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?" "At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly. "Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn you to be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station." They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff, genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour s drive brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester s. The servant seemed surprised at so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the cab. She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure coloured her pale cheeks. "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What news have you brought me?" "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune." She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, coolly enough. "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto s. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?" "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. " "Then I say," Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It s a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily. "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can t have the loot I ll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through for them as much as for myself.
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servant seemed surprised at so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the cab. She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure coloured her pale cheeks. "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What news have you brought me?" "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune." She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, coolly enough. "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto s. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,"<|quote|>said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.</|quote|>"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?" "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. " "Then I say," Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will
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The Sign Of The Four
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“Is Mrs Bossier in?”
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Harold Beecham
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won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs
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the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in
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able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.” I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the
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head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.” I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons. “Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening
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to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.” I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons. “Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him.
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rolling in a dozen directions, and turned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agility of a cat and barred my way. “Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.” It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. That wasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all- their-own -fault, which surrounded him. “If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.” I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons. “Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on
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been up the creek making a collection of ferns. I had on a pair of men’s boots with which to walk in the water, and was garbed in a most dilapidated old dress, which I had borrowed from one of the servants for the purpose. A pair of gloves made of basil, and a big hat, much torn in struggling through the undergrowth, completed my make-up. My hair was most unbecomingly screwed up, the short ends sticking out like a hurrah’s nest. It was late in the day when, returning from my ramble, I was met on the doorstep by aunt Helen. “While you are in that trim, I wish you would pluck some lemons for me. I’m sure there is no danger of you ruining your turn-out. A sketch of you would make a good item for the _Bulletin_,” she said. I went readily to do her bidding, and fetching a ladder with rungs about two feet six apart, placed it against a lemon-tree at the back of the house, and climbed up. Holding a number of lemons in my skirt, I was making a most ungraceful descent, when I heard an unknown footstep approaching towards my back. People came to Caddagat at all hours of the day, so I was not in the least disconcerted. Only a tramp, an agent, or a hawker, I bet, I thought, as I reached my big boot down for another rung of the ladder without turning my head to see whom it might be. A pair of strong brown hands encircled my waist, I was tossed up a foot or so and then deposited lightly on the ground, a masculine voice saying, “You’re a mighty well-shaped young filly—‘a waist rather small, but a quarter superb’.” “How dare anyone speak to me like that,” I thought, as I faced about to see who was parodying Gordon. There stood a man I had never before set eyes on, smiling mischievously at me. He was a young man—a very young man, a bushman tremendously tall and big and sunburnt, with an open pleasant face and chestnut moustache—not at all an awe-inspiring fellow, in spite of his unusual, though well-proportioned and carried, height. I knew it must be Harold Beecham, of Five-Bob Downs, as I had heard he stood six feet three and a half in his socks. I hurriedly let down my dress, the lemons rolling in a dozen directions, and turned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agility of a cat and barred my way. “Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.” It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. That wasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all- their-own -fault, which surrounded him. “If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.” I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons. “Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter. “You had no right to be dressed like that—deceiving a fellow. It wasn’t fair.” “That’s the best of it. It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character you are. You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society.” “That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.” “What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.” I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big careless ease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured about unladylike behaviour. “What is your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so
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young man, a bushman tremendously tall and big and sunburnt, with an open pleasant face and chestnut moustache—not at all an awe-inspiring fellow, in spite of his unusual, though well-proportioned and carried, height. I knew it must be Harold Beecham, of Five-Bob Downs, as I had heard he stood six feet three and a half in his socks. I hurriedly let down my dress, the lemons rolling in a dozen directions, and turned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agility of a cat and barred my way. “Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.” It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. That wasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all- their-own -fault, which surrounded him. “If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.”<|quote|>“Is Mrs Bossier in?”</|quote|>“No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.” I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons. “Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I
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My Brilliant Career
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"M'm."
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Freddy
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people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy,
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go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused,
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soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over
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XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had
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Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the
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and straining her lips apart until she spoke again. "Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful." "Her music always was wonderful." "Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made." "Italy has done it." "Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. She is one of us already." "But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At all events, not for women." "Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those
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were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped. She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool, and it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past. The grandchildren asked her to play the piano. She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr. Beebe had passed to himself when she returned. When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son. Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another's, had been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd. "Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again. "Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful." "Her music always was wonderful." "Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made." "Italy has done it." "Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. She is one of us already." "But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At all events, not for women." "Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled. "That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage." "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence." "How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I
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the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At all events, not for women." "Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."<|quote|>"M'm."</|quote|>"They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr.
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A Room With A View
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"How easy it is!"
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Edna Pontellier
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had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing,"
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himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did
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of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam
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over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water. A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam out alone. She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose
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summer to learn to swim. She had received instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassure her. But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water. A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam out alone. She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left there. She had not gone any great distance that is, what would have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome. A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering faculties and managed to regain the land. She made no
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that had been lost. She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining. The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein's hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. There were strange, rare odors abroad a tangle of the sea smell and of weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and the softness of sleep. Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy crests that coiled back like slow, white serpents. Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassure her. But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water. A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam out alone. She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left there. She had not gone any great distance that is, what would have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome. A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering faculties and managed to regain the land. She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror, except to say to her husband, "I thought I should have perished out there alone." "You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you," he told her. Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. She waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to their renewed cries which sought to detain her. "Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious," said Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that Edna's abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure. "I know she is," assented Mr. Pontellier; "sometimes, not often." Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was overtaken by Robert. "Did you think I was afraid?" she asked him, without a shade of annoyance. "No; I knew you weren't afraid." "Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay out there with the others?"
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the first time her being was tempered to take an impress of the abiding truth. She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking, and the tears blinded her. Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow, she went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed along the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder. "Well, how did you like my music?" she asked. The young woman was unable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively. Mademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She patted her again upon the shoulder as she said: "You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!" and she went shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room. But she was mistaken about "those others." Her playing had aroused a fever of enthusiasm. "What passion!" "What an artist!" "I have always said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!" "That last prelude! Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!" It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. But some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour and under that mystic moon. X At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice. There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did not lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered behind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and hold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself. The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon the arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert's voice behind them, and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the next, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining. The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein's hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. There were strange, rare odors abroad a tangle of the sea smell and of weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and the softness of sleep. Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy crests that coiled back like slow, white serpents. Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassure her. But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water. A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam out alone. She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left there. She had not gone any great distance that is, what would have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome. A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering faculties and managed to regain the land. She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror, except to say to her husband, "I thought I should have perished out there alone." "You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you," he told her. Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. She waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to their renewed cries which sought to detain her. "Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious," said Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that Edna's abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure. "I know she is," assented Mr. Pontellier; "sometimes, not often." Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was overtaken by Robert. "Did you think I was afraid?" she asked him, without a shade of annoyance. "No; I knew you weren't afraid." "Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay out there with the others?" "I never thought of it." "Thought of what?" "Of anything. What difference does it make?" "I'm very tired," she uttered, complainingly. "I know you are." "You don't know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so exhausted in my life. But it isn't unpleasant. A thousand emotions have swept through me to-night. I don't comprehend half of them. Don't mind what I'm saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz's playing moved me to-night. I wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night." "There are," whispered Robert, "Didn't you know this was the twenty-eighth of August?" "The twenty-eighth of August?" "Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if the moon is shining the moon must be shining a spirit that has haunted these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he has sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk in the shadow of her divine presence." "Don't banter me," she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere somewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them. Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree.
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perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour and under that mystic moon. X At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice. There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did not lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered behind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and hold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself. The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon the arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert's voice behind them, and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the next, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining. The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein's hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. There were strange, rare odors abroad a tangle of the sea smell and of weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and the softness of sleep. Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy crests that coiled back like slow, white serpents. Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and reassure her. But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water. A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end.<|quote|>"How easy it is!"</|quote|>she thought. "It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!" She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam out alone. She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left there. She had not gone any great distance that is, what would have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome. A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering faculties and managed to regain the land. She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror, except to say to her husband, "I thought I should have perished out there alone." "You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you," he told her. Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. She waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to their renewed cries which sought to detain her. "Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious," said Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that Edna's abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure. "I know she is," assented Mr. Pontellier; "sometimes, not often." Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was overtaken by Robert. "Did you think I was afraid?" she asked him, without a shade of annoyance. "No; I knew you weren't afraid." "Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay out there with the others?" "I never thought of it." "Thought of what?" "Of anything. What difference does it make?" "I'm very tired," she uttered, complainingly. "I know you are." "You don't know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so exhausted in my life. But it isn't
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The Awakening
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"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"
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Mrs. Costello
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they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is
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his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that
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handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah!
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personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at
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that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she
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their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl
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showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to do that; she was constantly "chaffing" and abusing him. She appeared completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to displease her at Mrs. Walker s little party. One Sunday afternoon, having gone to St. Peter s with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy strolling about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said: "That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?" "I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man. "You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he jumped into a cab and went to call on Mrs. Miller. She was at home; but she apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from
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upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side, has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at St. Peter s sufficient evidence. A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello, who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile, between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal said about poor little Miss Miller s going really "too far." Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed. He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful to hear so much that was pretty, and undefended, and natural assigned to a vulgar place among the categories of disorder. He made an attempt after this to give a hint to Mrs. Miller. He met one day in the Corso a friend, a tourist like himself, who had just come out of the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the pleasure of contemplating a picture of a different kind--that pretty American girl whom you pointed out to me last week." In answer to Winterbourne s inquiries, his friend narrated that the pretty American girl--prettier than ever--was seated with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his
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Daisy Miller
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"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."
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Anne Shirley
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"Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a
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of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out
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and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and
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sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at
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crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been--I may as well make a complete confession--I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we
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for--for me." "I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?" "Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been--I may as well make a complete confession--I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways. You are going to keep up your studies, aren't you? So am I. Come, I'm going to walk home with you." Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. "Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" "Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." "I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him," said Marilla with a dry smile. "We haven't been--we've been good enemies. But we have decided that it will be much more sensible to be good friends in the future. Were we really there half an hour? It seemed just a few minutes. But, you see, we have five years' lost conversations to catch up with, Marilla." Anne sat long at her window that night companioned by a glad content. The wind purred softly in the cherry boughs, and the mint breaths came up to her. The stars twinkled over the pointed firs in the hollow and Diana's light gleamed through the old gap. Anne's horizons had closed in since the night
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mingled weariness and relief. "I declare I'm getting glad to sit down. I've been on my feet all day, and two hundred pounds is a good bit for two feet to carry round. It's a great blessing not to be fat, Marilla. I hope you appreciate it. Well, Anne, I hear you've given up your notion of going to college. I was real glad to hear it. You've got as much education now as a woman can be comfortable with. I don't believe in girls going to college with the men and cramming their heads full of Latin and Greek and all that nonsense." "But I'm going to study Latin and Greek just the same, Mrs. Lynde," said Anne laughing. "I'm going to take my Arts course right here at Green Gables, and study everything that I would at college." Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands in holy horror. "Anne Shirley, you'll kill yourself." "Not a bit of it. I shall thrive on it. Oh, I'm not going to overdo things. As ?Josiah Allen's wife,' says, I shall be ?mejum'. But I'll have lots of spare time in the long winter evenings, and I've no vocation for fancy work. I'm going to teach over at Carmody, you know." "I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided to give you the school." "Mrs. Lynde!" cried Anne, springing to her feet in her surprise. "Why, I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe!" "So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it he went to them--they had a business meeting at the school last night, you know--and told them that he withdrew his application, and suggested that they accept yours. He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me." "I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?" "Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been--I may as well make a complete confession--I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways. You are going to keep up your studies, aren't you? So am I. Come, I'm going to walk home with you." Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. "Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" "Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." "I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him," said Marilla with a dry smile. "We haven't been--we've been good enemies. But we have decided that it will be much more sensible to be good friends in the future. Were we really there half an hour? It seemed just a few minutes. But, you see, we have five years' lost conversations to catch up with, Marilla." Anne sat long at her window that night companioned by a glad content. The wind purred softly in the cherry boughs, and the mint breaths came up to her. The stars twinkled over the pointed firs in the hollow and Diana's light gleamed through the old gap. Anne's horizons had closed in since the night she had sat there after coming home from Queen's; but if the path set before her feet was to be narrow she knew that flowers of quiet happiness would bloom along it. The joy of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers; nothing could rob her of her birthright of fancy or her ideal world of dreams. And there was always the bend in the road! "?God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,'" whispered Anne softly.
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keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?" "Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured,<|quote|>"you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</|quote|>Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been--I may as well make a complete confession--I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways. You are going to keep up your studies, aren't you? So am I. Come, I'm going to walk home with you." Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. "Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" "Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." "I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him," said Marilla with a dry smile. "We haven't been--we've been good enemies. But we have decided that it will be much more sensible to be good friends in the future. Were we really there half an hour? It seemed just a few minutes. But, you see, we have five years' lost conversations to catch up with, Marilla." Anne sat long at her window that night companioned by a glad content. The
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Anne Of Green Gables
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And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,
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No speaker
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it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you
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Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more
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was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy." CHAPTER XXXIV Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least
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how unprofitable contention would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative. "I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy." CHAPTER XXXIV Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded he had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with
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for that." "No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this." This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice, which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative. "I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy." CHAPTER XXXIV Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded he had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance could express. Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have
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be sought in marriage by a man of fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit in calling her niece. "Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; "Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece." And looking at her complacently, she added, "Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!" Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered "My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me, should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that." "No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this." This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice, which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative. "I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy." CHAPTER XXXIV Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded he had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance could express. Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand. William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of; and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time. After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him. Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the
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attachment would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady, unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time. How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is another concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's exact estimate of her own perfections. In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where he loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity of making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business without delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the effect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things. Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was: bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always trying to depress. Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see her displeasure, and not to hear it. Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit in calling her niece. "Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; "Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece." And looking at her complacently, she added, "Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!" Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered "My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me, should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that." "No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this." This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice, which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative. "I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy." CHAPTER XXXIV Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded he had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance could express. Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand. William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of; and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time. After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him. Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess. He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement. Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all;
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her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things. Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was: bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always trying to depress. Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see her displeasure, and not to hear it. Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit in calling her niece. "Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; "Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece." And looking at her complacently, she added, "Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!" Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered "My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me, should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that." "No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this." This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice, which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative. "I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening."<|quote|>And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,</|quote|>"And I will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy." CHAPTER XXXIV Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded he had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance could express. Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand. William's
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Mansfield Park
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replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.
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No speaker
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"Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said
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canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst
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the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause. "I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to
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shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern. These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents. How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause. "I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in
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duty. Then a week passed of land surveying and chart making, during which time the intercourse with the natives had been kept on a very friendly footing; and then a rumour ran round the ship that they were to sail after a certain channel had been sounded and the chart made. "It's all over, Mas' Don," said Jem gloomily. "We shall go sailing away all over the world, and be took by the French, and never see home again!" Don made no reply, but went about his duty gloomily enough till toward afternoon, when a canoe came off from the shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern. These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents. How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause. "I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco. Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,-- "My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark." It was not a
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for chucking stumbling-blocks all over the place for a man to hit his shins against." "Then propose something possible. And besides, you don't suppose I'm going away without you." "But I can't get my irons off, and you can get yours." "I don't know that," said Don, trying; and, to his great surprise, finding that he could drag the ring over his ankle without much difficulty. "There, I told you so. Slip it on again 'fore the sentry sees." The marine was not likely to see, for the place was very dark where they sat, and for a long time they discussed the matter in a whisper, but only to be obliged to come to the conclusion that it was impossible to escape, unless Don would go alone. "Well, if you won't go alone, you won't, Mas' Don," said Jem, in an ill-used tone; "but I do say as it's shabby of you, after I've thought about it so much." The second night of their imprisonment passed slowly, and they were cudgelling their brains next day, when they were summoned on deck, received a severe reprimand, and, after their irons had been taken off, were told to go to their duty. Then a week passed of land surveying and chart making, during which time the intercourse with the natives had been kept on a very friendly footing; and then a rumour ran round the ship that they were to sail after a certain channel had been sounded and the chart made. "It's all over, Mas' Don," said Jem gloomily. "We shall go sailing away all over the world, and be took by the French, and never see home again!" Don made no reply, but went about his duty gloomily enough till toward afternoon, when a canoe came off from the shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern. These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents. How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause. "I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco. Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,-- "My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark." It was not a very clear promise, but Don realised that it meant a chance of escape, and his eyes flashed with excitement, as the chief went on. "Plenty gunpowder. Bring, bring. My pakeha." He went off directly to where some of his fellows were standing about the deck, and hardly realising whether the chief was to be depended on, Don was about to go in search of Jem, when he felt a chill of despair, for, as he turned, he encountered the sinister countenance of Ramsden, his eye fixed upon him in a watchful way, and a satisfied smile playing about his lips. Did he hear? Did he know? If he did, Don felt certain that the scoundrel would go and report all to one of the officers, and so get it to the captain's ears. Still there was hope. He might not have heard, and as to the New Zealand men speaking to him, they were doing that to nearly every sailor they encountered on the deck. Still he felt that it would be better not to be seen speaking to Jem, and he crossed to another part of the ship, and stood watching the leave-taking of the visitors, who descended into
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`where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?" "Yes." "Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane." "You used to call it winding anything up, Jem." "Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don. Well, didn't I have that there case up to the top floor, and then lower it down through all the traps, and get it into the ground floor without the door being cut; and when your uncle come in, he stared, and asked me how I'd managed it?" "Yes, I remember it all," said Don sadly. "Look here, you two. I don't want to be hard," said the marine; "but you'll get me into a row. Now, are you going to clap on the hatchways, or am I to report you?" "All right, Jolly; we won't talk any more," said Jem; and he kept his word that night. There was no release next day, and very drearily it passed till towards evening, when Jem waited till the sentry's back was turned, and put his lips to Don's ear. "I've got it, Mas' Don," he said. "What, can you see your way to escape?" "I've hit it out, my lad. Look here. Do you know them's men's irons you've got on?" "Yes. They don't make irons for boys." "Then look here, my lad; it may mean a bit of skin off; but all you've got to do is to squeeze your feet through those rings, and then I'll be bound to say a thin slip of a fellow like you can creep out of the iron round your waist." "I don't think so, Jem. I'm stouter than you fancy." "Oh no, you're not, and I dessay it'll be a tight fit; but you do it." "And suppose I do get out of them, what about you?" "About me, Mas' Don? Ah, I don't know about me; but you could get right away, slide down the rope, get the gig up alongside--" "When it's swinging from the davits, Jem?" "There you go again," grumbled Jem. "I never did see such a fellow for chucking stumbling-blocks all over the place for a man to hit his shins against." "Then propose something possible. And besides, you don't suppose I'm going away without you." "But I can't get my irons off, and you can get yours." "I don't know that," said Don, trying; and, to his great surprise, finding that he could drag the ring over his ankle without much difficulty. "There, I told you so. Slip it on again 'fore the sentry sees." The marine was not likely to see, for the place was very dark where they sat, and for a long time they discussed the matter in a whisper, but only to be obliged to come to the conclusion that it was impossible to escape, unless Don would go alone. "Well, if you won't go alone, you won't, Mas' Don," said Jem, in an ill-used tone; "but I do say as it's shabby of you, after I've thought about it so much." The second night of their imprisonment passed slowly, and they were cudgelling their brains next day, when they were summoned on deck, received a severe reprimand, and, after their irons had been taken off, were told to go to their duty. Then a week passed of land surveying and chart making, during which time the intercourse with the natives had been kept on a very friendly footing; and then a rumour ran round the ship that they were to sail after a certain channel had been sounded and the chart made. "It's all over, Mas' Don," said Jem gloomily. "We shall go sailing away all over the world, and be took by the French, and never see home again!" Don made no reply, but went about his duty gloomily enough till toward afternoon, when a canoe came off from the shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern. These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents. How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause. "I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco. Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,-- "My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark." It was not a very clear promise, but Don realised that it meant a chance of escape, and his eyes flashed with excitement, as the chief went on. "Plenty gunpowder. Bring, bring. My pakeha." He went off directly to where some of his fellows were standing about the deck, and hardly realising whether the chief was to be depended on, Don was about to go in search of Jem, when he felt a chill of despair, for, as he turned, he encountered the sinister countenance of Ramsden, his eye fixed upon him in a watchful way, and a satisfied smile playing about his lips. Did he hear? Did he know? If he did, Don felt certain that the scoundrel would go and report all to one of the officers, and so get it to the captain's ears. Still there was hope. He might not have heard, and as to the New Zealand men speaking to him, they were doing that to nearly every sailor they encountered on the deck. Still he felt that it would be better not to be seen speaking to Jem, and he crossed to another part of the ship, and stood watching the leave-taking of the visitors, who descended into their canoe laden with presents and the objects they had obtained by barter. Tomati was the last to descend, and he was standing in the gangway with a bottle of rum and a canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,-- "I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here." The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face. "What island did you say, sir?" he said at last. "Norfolk Island. Am I right?" "I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now." He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain. "That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking. Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him. It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail. Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out. Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him. "Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?" Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the _qui vive_. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark. "Let's
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a thin slip of a fellow like you can creep out of the iron round your waist." "I don't think so, Jem. I'm stouter than you fancy." "Oh no, you're not, and I dessay it'll be a tight fit; but you do it." "And suppose I do get out of them, what about you?" "About me, Mas' Don? Ah, I don't know about me; but you could get right away, slide down the rope, get the gig up alongside--" "When it's swinging from the davits, Jem?" "There you go again," grumbled Jem. "I never did see such a fellow for chucking stumbling-blocks all over the place for a man to hit his shins against." "Then propose something possible. And besides, you don't suppose I'm going away without you." "But I can't get my irons off, and you can get yours." "I don't know that," said Don, trying; and, to his great surprise, finding that he could drag the ring over his ankle without much difficulty. "There, I told you so. Slip it on again 'fore the sentry sees." The marine was not likely to see, for the place was very dark where they sat, and for a long time they discussed the matter in a whisper, but only to be obliged to come to the conclusion that it was impossible to escape, unless Don would go alone. "Well, if you won't go alone, you won't, Mas' Don," said Jem, in an ill-used tone; "but I do say as it's shabby of you, after I've thought about it so much." The second night of their imprisonment passed slowly, and they were cudgelling their brains next day, when they were summoned on deck, received a severe reprimand, and, after their irons had been taken off, were told to go to their duty. Then a week passed of land surveying and chart making, during which time the intercourse with the natives had been kept on a very friendly footing; and then a rumour ran round the ship that they were to sail after a certain channel had been sounded and the chart made. "It's all over, Mas' Don," said Jem gloomily. "We shall go sailing away all over the world, and be took by the French, and never see home again!" Don made no reply, but went about his duty gloomily enough till toward afternoon, when a canoe came off from the shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern. These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents. How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,-- "Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?" "Hist! Mind what you're saying,"<|quote|>replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.</|quote|>"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause. "I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe." Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile. The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco. Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,-- "My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark." It was not a very clear promise, but Don realised that it meant a chance of escape, and his eyes flashed with excitement, as the chief went on. "Plenty gunpowder. Bring, bring. My pakeha." He went off directly to where some of his fellows were standing about the deck, and hardly realising whether the chief was to be depended on, Don was about to go in search of Jem, when he felt a chill of despair, for, as he turned, he encountered the sinister countenance of Ramsden, his eye fixed upon him in a watchful way, and a satisfied smile playing about his lips. Did he hear? Did he know? If he did, Don felt certain that the scoundrel would go and report all to one of the officers, and so get it to the captain's ears. Still there was hope. He might not have heard, and as to the New Zealand men speaking to him, they were doing that to nearly every sailor they encountered on the deck. Still he
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Don Lavington
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said Catherine warmly,
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No speaker
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own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he
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horse and gig of his own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And
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My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And why cannot he afford it?" "Because he has not money enough." "And whose fault is that?" "Nobody s, that I know of." Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being
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day, and turn round." "It is all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath. "If your brother had not got such a d beast to drive," said he soon afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And why cannot he afford it?" "Because he has not money enough." "And whose fault is that?" "Nobody s, that I know of." Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less
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a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Morland said, "We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round." "It is all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath. "If your brother had not got such a d beast to drive," said he soon afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And why cannot he afford it?" "Because he has not money enough." "And whose fault is that?" "Nobody s, that I know of." Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words. As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine
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himself very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney himself. Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very agreeable. Catherine s complaisance was no longer what it had been in their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards _that_, she still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its walls could supply the happiness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted the happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Morland said, "We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round." "It is all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath. "If your brother had not got such a d beast to drive," said he soon afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And why cannot he afford it?" "Because he has not money enough." "And whose fault is that?" "Nobody s, that I know of." Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words. As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme." They all spent the evening together at Thorpe s. Catherine was disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more than once. "How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is. But
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delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for almost anything. They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place, without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion, "Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?" "Who? Where?" "On the right-hand pavement she must be almost out of sight now." Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother s arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her. "Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe," she impatiently cried; "it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them." But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him to stop. "Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney." But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. "How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown Road? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now, and walk back to them. How could you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?" Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the point of its having been Tilney himself. Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very agreeable. Catherine s complaisance was no longer what it had been in their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards _that_, she still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its walls could supply the happiness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted the happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Morland said, "We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round." "It is all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath. "If your brother had not got such a d beast to drive," said he soon afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And why cannot he afford it?" "Because he has not money enough." "And whose fault is that?" "Nobody s, that I know of." Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words. As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme." They all spent the evening together at Thorpe s. Catherine was disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more than once. "How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such consequence." Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she offered. "Do not be so dull, my dearest creature," she whispered. "You will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a friend is concerned; that is my disposition, and John is just the same; he has amazing strong feelings. Good heavens! What a delightful hand you have got! Kings, I vow! I never was so happy in my life! I would fifty times rather you should have them than myself." And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine s portion; to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night s rest in the course of the next three months. CHAPTER 12 "Mrs. Allen," said Catherine the next morning, "will there be any harm in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have explained everything." "Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always wears white." Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform herself of General Tilney s lodgings, for though she believed they were in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen s wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged
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_that_, she still looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of the promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its walls could supply the happiness of a progress through a long suite of lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though now for many years deserted the happiness of being stopped in their way along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and of being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on their journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town of Keynsham, when a halloo from Morland, who was behind them, made his friend pull up, to know what was the matter. The others then came close enough for conversation, and Morland said, "We had better go back, Thorpe; it is too late to go on today; your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round." "It is all one to me," replied Thorpe rather angrily; and instantly turning his horse, they were on their way back to Bath. "If your brother had not got such a d beast to drive," said he soon afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade s pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own." "No, he is not,"<|quote|>said Catherine warmly,</|quote|>"for I am sure he could not afford it." "And why cannot he afford it?" "Because he has not money enough." "And whose fault is that?" "Nobody s, that I know of." Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a d thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could, which Catherine did not even endeavour to understand. Disappointed of what was to have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less disposed either to be agreeable herself or to find her companion so; and they returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words. As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off; that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no, had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme." They all spent the evening together at Thorpe s. Catherine was disturbed and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton. Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more than once. "How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball or not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody that is. But I dare say, Mr. Morland, you long to be at it, do not you? I am sure you do. Well, pray do not let anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say we could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such consequence." Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she offered. "Do not be so dull, my dearest creature," she whispered. "You will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where
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Northanger Abbey
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"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"
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A naval man with some medical knowledge
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lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh.
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can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm
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lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm. "You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem--our man, has a young wife." "No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back." "But you will let me send a message
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in His Majesty's Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober." Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man's words had swept all that away. Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm. "You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem--our man, has a young wife." "No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back." "But you will let me send a message to them at home?" "To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don't give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long." He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving
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He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,-- "That's the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they'll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty's Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober." Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man's words had swept all that away. Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm. "You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem--our man, has a young wife." "No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back." "But you will let me send a message to them at home?" "To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don't give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long." He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused. "Not very nice for a lad like you," he said, not unkindly. "Here, bring these two out, my lads; we'll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along." A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the
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Mas' Don?" "Yes, Jem. How are you?" "Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas' Don, and--" "Hist! Here they come," cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. "Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?" "No, Mas' Don, not now. My head's all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs." "Oh!" ejaculated Don despairingly. "But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door's open. That's how to get away." _Cling_! _clang_! Two bolts were shot back and a flood--or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood--of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor. A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,-- "That's the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they'll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty's Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober." Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man's words had swept all that away. Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm. "You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem--our man, has a young wife." "No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back." "But you will let me send a message to them at home?" "To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don't give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long." He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused. "Not very nice for a lad like you," he said, not unkindly. "Here, bring these two out, my lads; we'll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along." A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor. "Where shall we put 'em, sir?" said a sailor. "Top floor and make fast," said the bluff man. "But you will let me send word home?" began Don. "I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons," said the man sternly. "Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!--" There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear. The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next. "There's a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads," said the bluff man. "There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp's
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tools," said Jem, quietly; "but you can't break strong doors with your fisties, and you can't get out of brick cellars with your teeth." "Of course, we're underground." "Ay! No doubt about that, Mas' Don." "Let's knock and ask for a pencil and paper to send a message." Jem uttered a loud chuckle as he seated himself on the floor. "I like that, Mas' Don. 'Pon my word I do. Might just as well hit your head again the wall." "Better use yours for a battering ram, Jem," said Don, angrily. "It's thicker than mine." There was silence after this. "He's sulky because of what I've said," thought Don. "Oh, my poor head!" thought Jem. "How it do ache!" Then he began to think about Sally, and what she would say or do when she found that he did not come back. Just at the same time Don was reflecting upon his life of late, and how discontented he had been, and how he had longed to go away, while now he felt as if he would give anything to be back on his old stool in the office, writing hard, and trying his best to be satisfied with what seemed to be a peaceful, happy life. A terrible sensation of despair came over him, and the idea of being dragged off to a ship, and carried right away, was unbearable. What were glorious foreign lands with their wonders to one who would be thought of as a cowardly thief? As he leaned against a wall there in the darkness his busy brain pictured his stern-looking uncle telling his weeping mother that it was a disgrace to her to mourn over the loss of a son who could be guilty of such a crime, and then run away to avoid his punishment. "Oh! If I had only been a little wiser," thought Don, "how much happier I might have been." Then he forced himself to think out a way of escape, a little further conversation with Jem making him feel that he must depend upon himself, for poor Jem's injury seemed to make him at times confused; in fact, he quite startled his fellow-prisoner by exclaiming suddenly,-- "Now where did I put them keys?" "Jem!" "Eh? All right, Sally. 'Tarn't daylight yet." "Jem, my lad, don't you know where you are?" "Don't I tell you? Phew! My head. You there, Mas' Don?" "Yes, Jem. How are you?" "Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas' Don, and--" "Hist! Here they come," cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. "Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?" "No, Mas' Don, not now. My head's all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs." "Oh!" ejaculated Don despairingly. "But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door's open. That's how to get away." _Cling_! _clang_! Two bolts were shot back and a flood--or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood--of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor. A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,-- "That's the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they'll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty's Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober." Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man's words had swept all that away. Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm. "You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem--our man, has a young wife." "No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back." "But you will let me send a message to them at home?" "To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don't give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long." He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused. "Not very nice for a lad like you," he said, not unkindly. "Here, bring these two out, my lads; we'll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along." A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor. "Where shall we put 'em, sir?" said a sailor. "Top floor and make fast," said the bluff man. "But you will let me send word home?" began Don. "I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons," said the man sternly. "Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!--" There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear. The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next. "There's a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads," said the bluff man. "There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp's the word." They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head. The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away. "This is a happy sort o' life, Mas' Don," said Jem, breaking the silence. "What's to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!" "I don't know, Jem," said Don despondently. "It's enough to make one wish one was dead." "Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It's bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?" "I don't know, Jem." "Well, let's look. I want to lie down and have a sleep." "Sleep? At a time like this!" "Why not, sir? I'm half asleep now. Can't do anything better as I see." "Jem," said Don passionately, "we're being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear." "But we must bear it, sir. That's what you've got to do when you're punished. Don't take on, sir. P'r'aps, it won't seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about." Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account. "Justly punished," he kept muttering; "justly punished, and now it is too late--too late." "Here y'are, Mas' Don," cried Jem; "lots of 'em, and I can't help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off." Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks. "There!" Jem cried at last; "that's about it. Now, Mas' Don, I've made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down." "No, Jem, no; I'm not sleepy." "Then I must," muttered Jem; and
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think out a way of escape, a little further conversation with Jem making him feel that he must depend upon himself, for poor Jem's injury seemed to make him at times confused; in fact, he quite startled his fellow-prisoner by exclaiming suddenly,-- "Now where did I put them keys?" "Jem!" "Eh? All right, Sally. 'Tarn't daylight yet." "Jem, my lad, don't you know where you are?" "Don't I tell you? Phew! My head. You there, Mas' Don?" "Yes, Jem. How are you?" "Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas' Don, and--" "Hist! Here they come," cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. "Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?" "No, Mas' Don, not now. My head's all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs." "Oh!" ejaculated Don despairingly. "But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door's open. That's how to get away." _Cling_! _clang_! Two bolts were shot back and a flood--or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood--of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor. A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,-- "That's the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they'll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty's Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober." Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man's words had swept all that away. Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm. "You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem--our man, has a young wife." "No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man;<|quote|>"it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned--and boyed,"</|quote|>he added with a laugh. "But my mother?" "Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back." "But you will let me send a message to them at home?" "To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don't give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long." He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused. "Not very nice for a lad like you," he said, not unkindly. "Here, bring these two out, my lads; we'll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along." A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor. "Where shall we put 'em, sir?" said a sailor. "Top floor and make fast," said the bluff man. "But you will let me send word home?" began Don. "I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons," said the man sternly. "Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!--" There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear. The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next. "There's a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads," said the bluff man. "There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp's the word." They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head. The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away. "This is a happy sort o' life, Mas' Don," said Jem, breaking the silence. "What's to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!" "I don't know, Jem," said Don despondently. "It's enough to make one
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Don Lavington
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"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"
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Henry Crawford
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you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged
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can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no
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me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him." "Certainly;
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give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?" "I advise! You know very well what is right." "Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him." "Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself." He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could, with his other
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him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?" "I advise! You know very well what is right." "Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him." "Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself." He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately. Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was
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but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere. "I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house "I wish I left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?" "I advise! You know very well what is right." "Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him." "Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself." He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately. Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure. Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate herself for having them. Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing
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Who comes for you?" "I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end." After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion." Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off. "I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, I am well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered as well." Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere. "I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house "I wish I left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?" "I advise! You know very well what is right." "Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him." "Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself." He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately. Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure. Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate herself for having them. Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her? CHAPTER XLIII It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price's; and two days afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter from his sister, opened and read by her, on another account, with the most anxious curiosity: "I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day, on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet looks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony, and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect. This, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my information. He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking her first lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing much, but it would be out of place if I had, for this is to be a mere letter of business, penned for the purpose of conveying necessary information, which could not be
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not explicit enough with him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?" "I advise! You know very well what is right." "Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right." "Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."<|quote|>"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"</|quote|>"Nothing; I am much obliged to you." "Have you no message for anybody?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him." "Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself." He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately. Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure. Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate herself for having them. Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit
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Mansfield Park
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The girl stepped back astonished.
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No speaker
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"Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with
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with a burst of tears, "Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with a rush of tenderness she
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these forebodings visited the mind of Kit, and as soon as her mother appeared on the threshold she ran to her, crying, "Oh, where are we going to live, ma?" Fannie looked at her for a moment, and then answered with a burst of tears, "Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with a rush of tenderness she threw her arms about her mother's neck. "Oh, you 're tired to death," she said; "that 's what 's the matter with you. Never mind about the house now. I 've got some tea made for you, and you just
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and seen and felt, and now sat darkly waiting his mother's return. Some presentiment seemed to tell him that, armed as she was with money to pay for what she wanted and asking for nothing without price, she would yet have no better tale to tell than he. None of these forebodings visited the mind of Kit, and as soon as her mother appeared on the threshold she ran to her, crying, "Oh, where are we going to live, ma?" Fannie looked at her for a moment, and then answered with a burst of tears, "Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with a rush of tenderness she threw her arms about her mother's neck. "Oh, you 're tired to death," she said; "that 's what 's the matter with you. Never mind about the house now. I 've got some tea made for you, and you just take a cup." Fannie sat down and tried to drink her tea, but she could not. It stuck in her throat, and the tears rolled down her face and fell into the shaking cup. Joe looked on silently. He had been out and he understood. "I 'll go out to-morrow
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know what they think of ma and you, but they think hard of me, all right." "Oh, don't you worry; it 'll be all right when it blows over." "Yes, when it all blows over; but when 'll that be?" "Oh, after a while, when we can show 'em we 're all right." Some of the girl's cheery hopefulness had come back to her in the presence of her brother's dejection, as a woman always forgets her own sorrow when some one she loves is grieving. But she could not communicate any of her feeling to Joe, who had been and seen and felt, and now sat darkly waiting his mother's return. Some presentiment seemed to tell him that, armed as she was with money to pay for what she wanted and asking for nothing without price, she would yet have no better tale to tell than he. None of these forebodings visited the mind of Kit, and as soon as her mother appeared on the threshold she ran to her, crying, "Oh, where are we going to live, ma?" Fannie looked at her for a moment, and then answered with a burst of tears, "Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with a rush of tenderness she threw her arms about her mother's neck. "Oh, you 're tired to death," she said; "that 's what 's the matter with you. Never mind about the house now. I 've got some tea made for you, and you just take a cup." Fannie sat down and tried to drink her tea, but she could not. It stuck in her throat, and the tears rolled down her face and fell into the shaking cup. Joe looked on silently. He had been out and he understood. "I 'll go out to-morrow and do some looking around for a house while you stay at home an' rest, ma." Her mother looked up, the maternal instinct for the protection of her daughter at once aroused. "Oh, no, not you, Kitty," she said. Then for the first time Joe spoke: "You 'd just as well tell Kitty now, ma, for she 's got to come across it anyhow." "What you know about it? Whaih you been to?" "I 've been out huntin' work. I 've been to Jones's bahbah shop an' to the Continental Hotel." His light-brown face turned brick red with anger and
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called to him. "I did n't know," he said,--" "I did n't know that you were Berry Hamilton's boy. Now, I 've got nothing against you myself. I don't hold you responsible for what your father did, but I don't believe our boys would work with you. I can't take you on." Joe turned away to meet the grinning or contemptuous glances of the bellmen on the seat. It would have been good to be able to hurl something among them. But he was helpless. He hastened out of the hotel, feeling that every eye was upon him, every finger pointing at him, every tongue whispering, "There goes Joe Hamilton, whose father went to the penitentiary the other day." What should he do? He could try no more. He was proscribed, and the letters of his ban were writ large throughout the town, where all who ran might read. For a while he wandered aimlessly about and then turned dejectedly homeward. His mother had not yet come. "Did you get a job?" was Kit's first question. "No," he answered bitterly, "no one wants me now." "No one wants you? Why, Joe--they--they don't think hard of us, do they?" "I don't know what they think of ma and you, but they think hard of me, all right." "Oh, don't you worry; it 'll be all right when it blows over." "Yes, when it all blows over; but when 'll that be?" "Oh, after a while, when we can show 'em we 're all right." Some of the girl's cheery hopefulness had come back to her in the presence of her brother's dejection, as a woman always forgets her own sorrow when some one she loves is grieving. But she could not communicate any of her feeling to Joe, who had been and seen and felt, and now sat darkly waiting his mother's return. Some presentiment seemed to tell him that, armed as she was with money to pay for what she wanted and asking for nothing without price, she would yet have no better tale to tell than he. None of these forebodings visited the mind of Kit, and as soon as her mother appeared on the threshold she ran to her, crying, "Oh, where are we going to live, ma?" Fannie looked at her for a moment, and then answered with a burst of tears, "Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with a rush of tenderness she threw her arms about her mother's neck. "Oh, you 're tired to death," she said; "that 's what 's the matter with you. Never mind about the house now. I 've got some tea made for you, and you just take a cup." Fannie sat down and tried to drink her tea, but she could not. It stuck in her throat, and the tears rolled down her face and fell into the shaking cup. Joe looked on silently. He had been out and he understood. "I 'll go out to-morrow and do some looking around for a house while you stay at home an' rest, ma." Her mother looked up, the maternal instinct for the protection of her daughter at once aroused. "Oh, no, not you, Kitty," she said. Then for the first time Joe spoke: "You 'd just as well tell Kitty now, ma, for she 's got to come across it anyhow." "What you know about it? Whaih you been to?" "I 've been out huntin' work. I 've been to Jones's bahbah shop an' to the Continental Hotel." His light-brown face turned brick red with anger and shame at the memory of it. "I don't think I 'll try any more." Kitty was gazing with wide and saddening eyes at her mother. "Were they mean to you too, ma?" she asked breathlessly. "Mean? Oh Kitty! Kitty! you don't know what it was like. It nigh killed me. Thaih was plenty of houses an' owned by people I 've knowed fu' yeahs, but not one of 'em wanted to rent to me. Some of 'em made excuses 'bout one thing er t' other, but de res' come right straight out an' said dat we 'd give a neighbourhood a bad name ef we moved into it. I 've almos' tramped my laigs off. I 've tried every decent place I could think of, but nobody wants us." The girl was standing with her hands clenched nervously before her. It was almost more than she could understand. "Why, we ain't done anything," she said. "Even if they don't know any better than to believe that pa was guilty, they know we ain't done anything." "I 'd like to cut the heart out of a few of 'em," said Joe in his throat. "It ain't goin' to do no good
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and shame in his eyes, and the laughs and taunts of his tormentors still ringing in his ears. It was cruel, of course it was cruel. It was brutal. But only he knew how just it had been. In his moments of pride he had said all those things, half in fun and half in earnest, and he began to wonder how he could have been so many kinds of a fool for so long without realising it. He had not the heart to seek another shop, for he knew that what would be known at one would be equally well known at all the rest. The hardest thing that he had to bear was the knowledge that he had shut himself out of all the chances that he now desired. He remembered with a pang the words of an old negro to whom he had once been impudent, "Nevah min', boy, nevah min', you 's bo'n, but you ain't daid!" It was too true. He had not known then what would come. He had never dreamed that anything so terrible could overtake him. Even in his straits, however, desperation gave him a certain pluck. He would try for something else for which his own tongue had not disqualified him. With Joe, to think was to do. He went on to the Continental Hotel, where there were almost always boys wanted to "run the bells." The clerk looked him over critically. He was a bright, spruce-looking young fellow, and the man liked his looks. "Well, I guess we can take you on," he said. "What 's your name?" "Joe," was the laconic answer. He was afraid to say more. "Well, Joe, you go over there and sit where you see those fellows in uniform, and wait until I call the head bellman." Young Hamilton went over and sat down on a bench which ran along the hotel corridor and where the bellmen were wont to stay during the day awaiting their calls. A few of the blue-coated Mercuries were there. Upon Joe's advent they began to look askance at him and to talk among themselves. He felt his face burning as he thought of what they must be saying. Then he saw the head bellman talking to the clerk and looking in his direction. He saw him shake his head and walk away. He could have cursed him. The clerk called to him. "I did n't know," he said,--" "I did n't know that you were Berry Hamilton's boy. Now, I 've got nothing against you myself. I don't hold you responsible for what your father did, but I don't believe our boys would work with you. I can't take you on." Joe turned away to meet the grinning or contemptuous glances of the bellmen on the seat. It would have been good to be able to hurl something among them. But he was helpless. He hastened out of the hotel, feeling that every eye was upon him, every finger pointing at him, every tongue whispering, "There goes Joe Hamilton, whose father went to the penitentiary the other day." What should he do? He could try no more. He was proscribed, and the letters of his ban were writ large throughout the town, where all who ran might read. For a while he wandered aimlessly about and then turned dejectedly homeward. His mother had not yet come. "Did you get a job?" was Kit's first question. "No," he answered bitterly, "no one wants me now." "No one wants you? Why, Joe--they--they don't think hard of us, do they?" "I don't know what they think of ma and you, but they think hard of me, all right." "Oh, don't you worry; it 'll be all right when it blows over." "Yes, when it all blows over; but when 'll that be?" "Oh, after a while, when we can show 'em we 're all right." Some of the girl's cheery hopefulness had come back to her in the presence of her brother's dejection, as a woman always forgets her own sorrow when some one she loves is grieving. But she could not communicate any of her feeling to Joe, who had been and seen and felt, and now sat darkly waiting his mother's return. Some presentiment seemed to tell him that, armed as she was with money to pay for what she wanted and asking for nothing without price, she would yet have no better tale to tell than he. None of these forebodings visited the mind of Kit, and as soon as her mother appeared on the threshold she ran to her, crying, "Oh, where are we going to live, ma?" Fannie looked at her for a moment, and then answered with a burst of tears, "Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with a rush of tenderness she threw her arms about her mother's neck. "Oh, you 're tired to death," she said; "that 's what 's the matter with you. Never mind about the house now. I 've got some tea made for you, and you just take a cup." Fannie sat down and tried to drink her tea, but she could not. It stuck in her throat, and the tears rolled down her face and fell into the shaking cup. Joe looked on silently. He had been out and he understood. "I 'll go out to-morrow and do some looking around for a house while you stay at home an' rest, ma." Her mother looked up, the maternal instinct for the protection of her daughter at once aroused. "Oh, no, not you, Kitty," she said. Then for the first time Joe spoke: "You 'd just as well tell Kitty now, ma, for she 's got to come across it anyhow." "What you know about it? Whaih you been to?" "I 've been out huntin' work. I 've been to Jones's bahbah shop an' to the Continental Hotel." His light-brown face turned brick red with anger and shame at the memory of it. "I don't think I 'll try any more." Kitty was gazing with wide and saddening eyes at her mother. "Were they mean to you too, ma?" she asked breathlessly. "Mean? Oh Kitty! Kitty! you don't know what it was like. It nigh killed me. Thaih was plenty of houses an' owned by people I 've knowed fu' yeahs, but not one of 'em wanted to rent to me. Some of 'em made excuses 'bout one thing er t' other, but de res' come right straight out an' said dat we 'd give a neighbourhood a bad name ef we moved into it. I 've almos' tramped my laigs off. I 've tried every decent place I could think of, but nobody wants us." The girl was standing with her hands clenched nervously before her. It was almost more than she could understand. "Why, we ain't done anything," she said. "Even if they don't know any better than to believe that pa was guilty, they know we ain't done anything." "I 'd like to cut the heart out of a few of 'em," said Joe in his throat. "It ain't goin' to do no good to look at it that a-way, Joe," his mother replied. "I know hit 's ha'd, but we got to do de bes' we kin." "What are we goin' to do?" cried the boy fiercely. "They won't let us work. They won't let us live anywhaih. Do they want us to live on the levee an' steal, like some of 'em do?" "What are we goin' to do?" echoed Kitty helplessly. "I 'd go out ef I thought I could find anythin' to work at." "Don't you go anywhaih, child. It 'ud only be worse. De niggah men dat ust to be bowin' an' scrapin' to me an' tekin' off dey hats to me laughed in my face. I met Minty--an' she slurred me right in de street. Dey 'd do worse fu' you." In the midst of the conversation a knock came at the door. It was a messenger from the "House," as they still called Oakley's home, and he wanted them to be out of the cottage by the next afternoon, as the new servants were coming and would want the rooms. The message was so curt, so hard and decisive, that Fannie was startled out of her grief into immediate action. "Well, we got to go," she said, rising wearily. "But where are we goin'?" wailed Kitty in affright. "There 's no place to go to. We have n't got a house. Where 'll we go?" "Out o' town someplace as fur away from this damned hole as we kin git." The boy spoke recklessly in his anger. He had never sworn before his mother before. She looked at him in horror. "Joe, Joe," she said, "you 're mekin' it wuss. You 're mekin' it ha'dah fu' me to baih when you talk dat a-way. What you mean? Whaih you think Gawd is?" Joe remained sullenly silent. His mother's faith was too stalwart for his comprehension. There was nothing like it in his own soul to interpret it. "We 'll git de secon'-han' dealah to tek ouah things to-morrer, an' then we 'll go away some place, up No'th maybe." "Let 's go to New York," said Joe. "New Yo'k?" They had heard of New York as a place vague and far away, a city that, like Heaven, to them had existed by faith alone. All the days of their lives they had heard of it, and it
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clerk and looking in his direction. He saw him shake his head and walk away. He could have cursed him. The clerk called to him. "I did n't know," he said,--" "I did n't know that you were Berry Hamilton's boy. Now, I 've got nothing against you myself. I don't hold you responsible for what your father did, but I don't believe our boys would work with you. I can't take you on." Joe turned away to meet the grinning or contemptuous glances of the bellmen on the seat. It would have been good to be able to hurl something among them. But he was helpless. He hastened out of the hotel, feeling that every eye was upon him, every finger pointing at him, every tongue whispering, "There goes Joe Hamilton, whose father went to the penitentiary the other day." What should he do? He could try no more. He was proscribed, and the letters of his ban were writ large throughout the town, where all who ran might read. For a while he wandered aimlessly about and then turned dejectedly homeward. His mother had not yet come. "Did you get a job?" was Kit's first question. "No," he answered bitterly, "no one wants me now." "No one wants you? Why, Joe--they--they don't think hard of us, do they?" "I don't know what they think of ma and you, but they think hard of me, all right." "Oh, don't you worry; it 'll be all right when it blows over." "Yes, when it all blows over; but when 'll that be?" "Oh, after a while, when we can show 'em we 're all right." Some of the girl's cheery hopefulness had come back to her in the presence of her brother's dejection, as a woman always forgets her own sorrow when some one she loves is grieving. But she could not communicate any of her feeling to Joe, who had been and seen and felt, and now sat darkly waiting his mother's return. Some presentiment seemed to tell him that, armed as she was with money to pay for what she wanted and asking for nothing without price, she would yet have no better tale to tell than he. None of these forebodings visited the mind of Kit, and as soon as her mother appeared on the threshold she ran to her, crying, "Oh, where are we going to live, ma?" Fannie looked at her for a moment, and then answered with a burst of tears, "Gawd knows, child, Gawd knows."<|quote|>The girl stepped back astonished.</|quote|>"Why, why!" and then with a rush of tenderness she threw her arms about her mother's neck. "Oh, you 're tired to death," she said; "that 's what 's the matter with you. Never mind about the house now. I 've got some tea made for you, and you just take a cup." Fannie sat down and tried to drink her tea, but she could not. It stuck in her throat, and the tears rolled down her face and fell into the shaking cup. Joe looked on silently. He had been out and he understood. "I 'll go out to-morrow and do some looking around for a house while you stay at home an' rest, ma." Her mother looked up, the maternal instinct for the protection of her daughter at once aroused. "Oh, no, not you, Kitty," she said. Then for the first time Joe spoke: "You 'd just as well tell Kitty now, ma, for she 's got to come across it anyhow." "What you know about it? Whaih you been to?" "I 've been out huntin' work. I 've been to Jones's bahbah shop an' to the Continental Hotel." His light-brown face turned brick red with anger and shame at the memory of it. "I don't think I 'll try any more." Kitty was gazing with wide and saddening eyes at her mother. "Were they mean to you too, ma?" she asked breathlessly. "Mean? Oh Kitty! Kitty! you don't know what it was like. It nigh killed me. Thaih was plenty of houses an' owned by people I 've knowed fu' yeahs, but not one of 'em wanted to rent to me. Some of 'em made excuses 'bout one thing er t' other, but de res' come right straight out an' said dat we 'd give a neighbourhood a bad name ef we moved into it. I 've almos' tramped my laigs off. I 've tried every decent place I could think of, but nobody wants us." The girl was standing with her hands clenched nervously before her. It was almost more than she could understand. "Why, we ain't done anything," she said. "Even if they don't know any better than to believe that pa was guilty, they know we ain't done anything." "I 'd like to cut the heart out of a few of 'em," said Joe in his throat. "It ain't goin' to do no good to look at it that a-way, Joe," his mother replied. "I know hit 's ha'd, but we got to do de bes' we kin." "What are we goin' to do?" cried the boy fiercely. "They won't let us work. They won't let us live anywhaih. Do they want us to live on the levee an' steal, like some of 'em do?" "What are we goin' to do?" echoed Kitty helplessly. "I 'd go out ef I thought I could find anythin' to work at." "Don't you go anywhaih, child. It 'ud only be worse. De niggah men dat ust to be bowin' an' scrapin' to me
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The Sport Of The Gods
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"I understand."
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Rose Maylie
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you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl,
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man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with
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soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if
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replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the
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have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and
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"Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never
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door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet." In short, Fagin,' "he says," Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.'" "His brother!" exclaimed Rose. "Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged spaniel was." "You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was said in earnest?" "He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back quickly." "But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an hour's delay." "I wish to go back," said the girl. "I must go back, because how can I tell such things to an innocent lady like you? because among the men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all; that I can't leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now." "Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before," said Rose; "your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed. Oh!" said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears coursed down her face,
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along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by hearing him tell the place that I found you out." "I never heard the name," said Rose. "Then he goes by some other amongst us," rejoined the girl, "which I more than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your house on the night of the robbery, I suspecting this man listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what I heard, that Monks the man I asked you about, you know" "Yes," said Rose,<|quote|>"I understand."</|quote|>"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidently with two of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own." "For what purpose?" asked Rose. "He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and I saw him no more till last night." "And what occurred then?" "I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these:" So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' "They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit of him besides." "What is all this!" said Rose. "The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and history, he might
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Oliver Twist
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"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."
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Don Lavington
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"I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my
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shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard
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down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long
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again, climbed in, and cast out her grapnel a few fathoms from the shore. "I am disappointed," said Don, after they had sat in the boat some time, watching their companions till they had disappeared. "Oh, I dunno, Mas' Don; we've got some beef and biscuit, and somewhere to sit down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long canoe, and ran it up the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish
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have this lad, sir, to carry a spare gun for you?" "Yes," said the captain; "a good plan;" and Don's eyes sparkled. "No," said the captain the next moment; "he is only a boy, and the walking will be too hard for him. Let him and another stay with the boat." Don's brow clouded over with disappointment, but it cleared a little directly after as he found that Jem was to be his companion; and as the party marched off toward where the forest came down nearly to the sea, they, in obedience to their orders, thrust the boat off again, climbed in, and cast out her grapnel a few fathoms from the shore. "I am disappointed," said Don, after they had sat in the boat some time, watching their companions till they had disappeared. "Oh, I dunno, Mas' Don; we've got some beef and biscuit, and somewhere to sit down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long canoe, and ran it up the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish in its beak; "see that, Mas' Don?" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Don impatiently; "why not now?" "Why not now, Mas' Don?" said Jem, scratching his head; "is that what you call a connundydrum?" "Don't be stupid, man. I say, why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only
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ship and crew. It was a glorious morning, with hardly a breath of wind stirring, and the savages were lolling about on the shore. Their canoes were run up on the sands, and there was an aspect of calm and repose everywhere that seemed delightful. But the boat's crew had little time given them for thinking. The captain and a midshipman of about Don's age took their places in the stern sheets, Bosun Jones seized the tiller, the word was given, the oars splashed the water simultaneously, and the boat sped over the calm surface of the transparent sea, sending the shoals of fish darting away. The boat's head was set in quite a fresh direction, and she was run ashore a little way from the mouth of a rushing river, whose waters came foaming down through blocks of pumice and black masses of volcanic stone. As the boat's head touched the shore, the men leaped over right and left, and dragged her a short distance up the black glistening heavy sand, so that the captain could land dry-shod. Then preparations were made, arms charged, and Bosun Jones gave Don a friendly nod before turning to the captain. "Will you have this lad, sir, to carry a spare gun for you?" "Yes," said the captain; "a good plan;" and Don's eyes sparkled. "No," said the captain the next moment; "he is only a boy, and the walking will be too hard for him. Let him and another stay with the boat." Don's brow clouded over with disappointment, but it cleared a little directly after as he found that Jem was to be his companion; and as the party marched off toward where the forest came down nearly to the sea, they, in obedience to their orders, thrust the boat off again, climbed in, and cast out her grapnel a few fathoms from the shore. "I am disappointed," said Don, after they had sat in the boat some time, watching their companions till they had disappeared. "Oh, I dunno, Mas' Don; we've got some beef and biscuit, and somewhere to sit down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long canoe, and ran it up the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish in its beak; "see that, Mas' Don?" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Don impatiently; "why not now?" "Why not now, Mas' Don?" said Jem, scratching his head; "is that what you call a connundydrum?" "Don't be stupid, man. I say, why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only be taking it back." "Ah, they'd preach quite a different sarmon to that," said Jem, shaking his head. "Why, you are never going to turn tail?" "Not I, Mas' Don, when the time comes; but it don't seem to have come yet." "Why, the opportunity is splendid, man." "No, Mas' Don, I don't think so. If we take the boat, 'fore we've gone far they'll ketch sight of us aboard, and send another one to fetch us back, or else make a cock-shy of us with the long gun." "Then let's leave the boat." "And go ashore, and meet our messmates and the captain." "Go in another direction." "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," said Jem, grinning. "Say, Mas' Don, how do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make
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away. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. AN INVITATION. It seemed to Don that the object of the captain in coming to New Zealand was to select and survey portions of the coast for a new settlement; and for the next few days well-armed boat parties were out in all directions sounding, and in two cases making short journeys inland. "I say," said Jem one morning, as he and Don stood gazing over the side of the ship at the verdant shores. "Well, Jem, what do you say?" "Has that ugly-looking chap Ramsden been telling tales about us?" "I don't know; why?" "Because here's a fortnight we've been at anchor, and since the first day neither of us has been out in a boat." "Hasn't been our turn, Jem." "Well, p'r'aps not, sir; but it do seem strange. Just as if they thought we should slip away." "And I suppose we've given up all such thoughts as that now." "Oh, have we?" said Jem sarcastically; and then there was silence for a time, till Jem, who had been watching the steam rise from the little island about a quarter of a mile away, exclaimed, "Wonder what's being cooked over yonder, Mas' Don. I know; no, I don't. Thought it was washing day, but it can't be, for they don't hardly wear any clothes." "It's volcanic steam, Jem. Comes out of the earth." "Get along with you, Mas' Don. Don't get spinning yarns." "I'm telling you the truth, Jem." "Are you, sir? Well, p'r'aps it's what you think is the truth, I say, arn't it lovely out here? How I should like to have a cottage just on that there point, and my Sally to keep it tidy. Hullo! What's up?" The boatswain's shrill pipe was heard just then, and a boat's crew was summoned to take an exploring party ashore. To Don's great delight, he and Jem formed part of the boat's crew; and at last he felt that he was to see something of the beautiful place, which grew more attractive every time he scanned the coast. This time the captain was going to land; and, as the men were provided with axes, it seemed that they were about to make their way into the woods. The natives had been most friendly, bringing off and receiving presents; but, all the same, no precautions were omitted to provide for the safety of the ship and crew. It was a glorious morning, with hardly a breath of wind stirring, and the savages were lolling about on the shore. Their canoes were run up on the sands, and there was an aspect of calm and repose everywhere that seemed delightful. But the boat's crew had little time given them for thinking. The captain and a midshipman of about Don's age took their places in the stern sheets, Bosun Jones seized the tiller, the word was given, the oars splashed the water simultaneously, and the boat sped over the calm surface of the transparent sea, sending the shoals of fish darting away. The boat's head was set in quite a fresh direction, and she was run ashore a little way from the mouth of a rushing river, whose waters came foaming down through blocks of pumice and black masses of volcanic stone. As the boat's head touched the shore, the men leaped over right and left, and dragged her a short distance up the black glistening heavy sand, so that the captain could land dry-shod. Then preparations were made, arms charged, and Bosun Jones gave Don a friendly nod before turning to the captain. "Will you have this lad, sir, to carry a spare gun for you?" "Yes," said the captain; "a good plan;" and Don's eyes sparkled. "No," said the captain the next moment; "he is only a boy, and the walking will be too hard for him. Let him and another stay with the boat." Don's brow clouded over with disappointment, but it cleared a little directly after as he found that Jem was to be his companion; and as the party marched off toward where the forest came down nearly to the sea, they, in obedience to their orders, thrust the boat off again, climbed in, and cast out her grapnel a few fathoms from the shore. "I am disappointed," said Don, after they had sat in the boat some time, watching their companions till they had disappeared. "Oh, I dunno, Mas' Don; we've got some beef and biscuit, and somewhere to sit down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long canoe, and ran it up the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish in its beak; "see that, Mas' Don?" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Don impatiently; "why not now?" "Why not now, Mas' Don?" said Jem, scratching his head; "is that what you call a connundydrum?" "Don't be stupid, man. I say, why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only be taking it back." "Ah, they'd preach quite a different sarmon to that," said Jem, shaking his head. "Why, you are never going to turn tail?" "Not I, Mas' Don, when the time comes; but it don't seem to have come yet." "Why, the opportunity is splendid, man." "No, Mas' Don, I don't think so. If we take the boat, 'fore we've gone far they'll ketch sight of us aboard, and send another one to fetch us back, or else make a cock-shy of us with the long gun." "Then let's leave the boat." "And go ashore, and meet our messmates and the captain." "Go in another direction." "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," said Jem, grinning. "Say, Mas' Don, how do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem, "you see we couldn't get off; some one coming back." "Ahoy!" came again; "boat ahoy!" "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted back Jem, and the two boat-keepers watched the moving ferns in front of them, expecting to see the straw hat of a messmate directly; but instead there appeared the black white-tipped feathers, and then the hideously tattooed bluish face of a savage, followed directly after by another, and two stalwart men came out on to the sands, and began to walk slowly down toward the boat. "Cock your pistol, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, "quiet-like; don't let 'em see. They've got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their _ahoys_." "Why, it's that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha." "And like his impudence!" said Jem. "You're right though, so it is." "Morning, mate," said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him. "Morning, my hearty," said Jem. "What is it? Want a passage home?" "Do I want what?" growled the man. "Not I; too well off here." "Wouldn't be safe to go back, p'r'aps," said Jem meaningly. The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark. "Never you mind about that," he said surlily. "But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven't you?" continued Jem, in a bantering tone. The man's aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly
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that the captain could land dry-shod. Then preparations were made, arms charged, and Bosun Jones gave Don a friendly nod before turning to the captain. "Will you have this lad, sir, to carry a spare gun for you?" "Yes," said the captain; "a good plan;" and Don's eyes sparkled. "No," said the captain the next moment; "he is only a boy, and the walking will be too hard for him. Let him and another stay with the boat." Don's brow clouded over with disappointment, but it cleared a little directly after as he found that Jem was to be his companion; and as the party marched off toward where the forest came down nearly to the sea, they, in obedience to their orders, thrust the boat off again, climbed in, and cast out her grapnel a few fathoms from the shore. "I am disappointed," said Don, after they had sat in the boat some time, watching their companions till they had disappeared. "Oh, I dunno, Mas' Don; we've got some beef and biscuit, and somewhere to sit down, and nothing to do. They, poor fellows, will come back hot and tired out." "Yes; but's it's so dull here." "Well, I dunno 'bout that," said Jem, looking lazily round at the glorious prospect of glistening sea, island and shore, backed up by mountains; "I call it just lovely."<|quote|>"Oh, it's lovely enough, Jem; but I want to go ashore."</|quote|>"Now if you call my cottage dull inside the yard gates at Bristol, I'm with you, Mas' Don; but after all there's no place like home." There was a dead silence, during which Don sat gazing at a group of the savages half-a-mile away, as they landed from a long canoe, and ran it up the beach in front of one of the native _whares_ or dwellings. "Why, Jem!" Don exclaimed suddenly, "why not now?" "Eh?" said Jem, starting from watching a large bird dive down with a splash in the silvery water, and then rise again with a fish in its beak; "see that, Mas' Don?" "Yes, yes," exclaimed Don impatiently; "why not now?" "Why not now, Mas' Don?" said Jem, scratching his head; "is that what you call a connundydrum?" "Don't be stupid, man. I say, why not now?" "Yes, I heared you say so twice; but what does it mean?" "We're quite alone; we have a boat and arms, with food and water. Why not escape now?" "Escape, Mas' Don? What, run away now at once--desert?" "It is not running away, Jem; it is not deserting. They have robbed us of our liberty, and we should only be taking it back." "Ah, they'd preach quite a different sarmon to that," said Jem, shaking his head. "Why, you are never going to turn tail?" "Not I, Mas' Don, when the time comes; but it don't seem to have come yet." "Why, the opportunity is splendid, man." "No, Mas' Don, I don't think so. If we take the boat, 'fore we've gone far they'll ketch sight of us aboard, and send another one to fetch us back, or else make a cock-shy of us with the long gun." "Then let's leave the boat." "And go ashore, and meet our messmates and the captain." "Go in another direction." "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," said Jem, grinning. "Say, Mas' Don, how do they cook their food?" "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; that's only a traveller's tale. I believe the people here will behave kindly to us." "Till we got fat," said Jem, chuckling; "and then they'd have a tuck out. No, thank ye, Mas' Don; my Sally wouldn't like it. You see, I'm nice and plump and round now, and they'd soon use me. You're a great long growing boy, thin as a lath, and it'd take years to make you fit to kill, so as it don't matter for you." "There is a chance open to us now for escape," said Don bitterly; "to get right away, and journey to some port, where we could get a passage to England as sailors, and you treat it with ridicule." "Not I, Mas' Don, lad." "You do, Jem. Such a chance may never occur again; and I shall never be happy till I have told my mother what is the real truth about our going away." "But you did write it to her, Mas' Don." "Write! What is writing to speaking? I thought you meant to stand by me." "So I do, Mas' Don, when a good chance comes. It hasn't come yet." "Ahoy!" A hail came out of the dense growth some fifty yards away. "There," said Jem, "you see we
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Don Lavington
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"I am, after I have said good night."
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Alcee Arobin
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said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He
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you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to
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but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he
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of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it." "Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was
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I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it." "Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with
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a railway train somewhere in the distance, and the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk. The "pigeon house" stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_ that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. "Are you tired?" he asked. "Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it." "Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business tact and cleverness. The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructions the most minute instructions to a well-known architect concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence. Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, carpets, pictures everything movable, in short to places of security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition a small snuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn abroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances! Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balk his intentions. When the situation as set forth by
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could be so late. Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself. He asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not. The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness had fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna's disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night. XXXI "Well?" questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the others had departed. "Well," she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling the need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated. "What next?" he asked. "The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have dismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot around to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the morning to straighten things up." He looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights. "What about upstairs?" he inquired. "I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched. We had better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my wrap and hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room." He went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows. She hated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found her cape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on. When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through the front door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carried for Edna. He helped her down the steps. "Will you have a spray of jessamine?" he asked, breaking off a few blossoms as he passed. "No; I don't want anything." She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, which he offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There was the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and the midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk. The "pigeon house" stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_ that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. "Are you tired?" he asked. "Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it." "Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business tact and cleverness. The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructions the most minute instructions to a well-known architect concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence. Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, carpets, pictures everything movable, in short to places of security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition a small snuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn abroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances! Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balk his intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier was accepted and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that it should be so. The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character of a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended in the social scale, with a corresponding sense of having risen in the spiritual. Every step which she took toward relieving herself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual. She began to look with her own eyes; to see and to apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No longer was she content to "feed upon opinion" when her own soul had invited her. After a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a week with her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days, with all the summer's promise hovering in the air. How glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when she felt their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheeks pressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces with hungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what stories they had to tell their mother! About the pigs, the cows, the mules! About riding to the mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake with their Uncle Jasper; picking pecans with Lidie's little black brood, and hauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand times more fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie's real fire than to drag painted blocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street! She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the darkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish in the back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all of herself, and gathering and filling herself with their young existence. They listened, breathless, when she told them the house in Esplanade Street was crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, and filling the place with clatter. They wanted to know where their bed was; what had been done with their rocking-horse; and where did Joe sleep, and where had Ellen gone, and the cook? But, above all, they were fired with a desire to see the little house around
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bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. "Are you tired?" he asked. "Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a certain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped." She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. "You want to rest," he said, "and to be quiet. I'll go; I'll leave you and let you rest." "Yes," she replied. He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck. "I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you might have dispensed with it." "Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid." "No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. "I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.<|quote|>"I am, after I have said good night."</|quote|>"Good night," she murmured. He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. XXXII When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his business prospects. But remembering Edna's whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business tact and cleverness. The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried instructions the most minute instructions to a well-known architect concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, and which he desired carried
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The Awakening
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"How can you, Harry!"
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Dorian Gray
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turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a
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third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the
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fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends."
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between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_ she was then." "She is still _d collet e_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle. She told me she didn t, because none of them had had any hearts at all." "Four husbands! Upon
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out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_ she was then." "She is still _d collet e_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle. She told me she didn t, because none of them had had any hearts at all." "Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de z le_." "_Trop d audace_, I tell her," said Dorian. "Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol like? I don t know him." "The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes," said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked." "But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. "It can only be the next world. This world and I are on
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many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me." It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_ she was then." "She is still _d collet e_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle. She told me she didn t, because none of them had had any hearts at all." "Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de z le_." "_Trop d audace_, I tell her," said Dorian. "Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol like? I don t know him." "The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes," said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked." "But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. "It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent terms." "Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady, shaking her head. Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly monstrous," he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one s back that are absolutely and entirely true." "Isn t he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. "I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion." "You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry. "You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs." "Narborough wasn t perfect," cried the old lady. "If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this,
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I should have fallen madly in love with you," she used to say, "and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough s fault. He was dreadfully short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who never sees anything." Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it is most unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake them up. You don t know what an existence they lead down there. It is pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep after dinner. You shan t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me and amuse me." Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess s daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me." It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_ she was then." "She is still _d collet e_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle. She told me she didn t, because none of them had had any hearts at all." "Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de z le_." "_Trop d audace_, I tell her," said Dorian. "Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol like? I don t know him." "The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes," said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked." "But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. "It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent terms." "Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady, shaking her head. Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly monstrous," he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one s back that are absolutely and entirely true." "Isn t he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. "I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion." "You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry. "You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs." "Narborough wasn t perfect," cried the old lady. "If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true." "Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men." "_Fin de si cle_," murmured Lord Henry. "_Fin du globe_," answered his hostess. "I wish it were _fin du globe_," said Dorian with a sigh. "Life is a great disappointment." "Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don t tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good you look so good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don t you think that Mr. Gray should get married?" "I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry with a bow. "Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the eligible young ladies." "With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian. "Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable alliance, and I want you both to be happy." "What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love her." "Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chair and nodding to Lady Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soon again. You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet, though. I want it to be a delightful gathering." "I like men who have a future and women who have a past," he answered. "Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?" "I fear so," she said, laughing, as she stood up. "A thousand pardons, my dear Lady Ruxton," she added, "I didn t see you
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and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_ she was then." "She is still _d collet e_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."<|quote|>"How can you, Harry!"</|quote|>cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle. She told me she didn t, because none of them had had any hearts at all." "Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de z le_." "_Trop d audace_, I tell her," said Dorian. "Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol like? I don t know him." "The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes," said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked." "But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. "It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent terms." "Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady, shaking her head. Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly monstrous," he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one s back that are absolutely and entirely true." "Isn t he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. "I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion." "You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry. "You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs." "Narborough wasn t perfect," cried the old lady. "If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true." "Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men." "_Fin de si cle_," murmured Lord Henry. "_Fin du globe_," answered his hostess. "I wish it were _fin du globe_," said Dorian with a sigh. "Life is a great disappointment." "Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don t tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows that life has exhausted
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"There s no way of climbing up here?"
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Colonel Adye
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s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said
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this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here.
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in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he
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and led the way up. There came a second smash while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the
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Already?" "What s up?" said Adye. "Look here!" said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye the Invisible Man s letter. Adye read it and whistled softly. "And you ?" said Adye. "Proposed a trap like a fool," said Kemp, "and sent my proposal out by a maid servant. To him." Adye followed Kemp s profanity. "He ll clear out," said Adye. "Not he," said Kemp. A resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery glimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp s pocket. "It s a window, upstairs!" said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes" Another window went the way of its fellows. "You haven t a revolver?" asked Adye. Kemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash.
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weather instead of the heat." "He may be watching me now." He went close to the window. Something rapped smartly against the brickwork over the frame, and made him start violently back. "I m getting nervous," said Kemp. But it was five minutes before he went to the window again. "It must have been a sparrow," he said. Presently he heard the front-door bell ringing, and hurried downstairs. He unbolted and unlocked the door, examined the chain, put it up, and opened cautiously without showing himself. A familiar voice hailed him. It was Adye. "Your servant s been assaulted, Kemp," he said round the door. "What!" exclaimed Kemp. "Had that note of yours taken away from her. He s close about here. Let me in." Kemp released the chain, and Adye entered through as narrow an opening as possible. He stood in the hall, looking with infinite relief at Kemp refastening the door. "Note was snatched out of her hand. Scared her horribly. She s down at the station. Hysterics. He s close here. What was it about?" Kemp swore. "What a fool I was," said Kemp. "I might have known. It s not an hour s walk from Hintondean. Already?" "What s up?" said Adye. "Look here!" said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye the Invisible Man s letter. Adye read it and whistled softly. "And you ?" said Adye. "Proposed a trap like a fool," said Kemp, "and sent my proposal out by a maid servant. To him." Adye followed Kemp s profanity. "He ll clear out," said Adye. "Not he," said Kemp. A resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery glimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp s pocket. "It s a window, upstairs!" said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes" Another window went the way of its fellows. "You haven t a revolver?" asked Adye. Kemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s. "Sorry," said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted
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the rule will be easy. The first day there will be one execution for the sake of example a man named Kemp. Death starts for him to-day. He may lock himself away, hide himself away, get guards about him, put on armour if he likes Death, the unseen Death, is coming. Let him take precautions; it will impress my people. Death starts from the pillar box by midday. The letter will fall in as the postman comes along, then off! The game begins. Death starts. Help him not, my people, lest Death fall upon you also. To-day Kemp is to die." Kemp read this letter twice, "It s no hoax," he said. "That s his voice! And he means it." He turned the folded sheet over and saw on the addressed side of it the postmark Hintondean, and the prosaic detail "2d. to pay." He got up slowly, leaving his lunch unfinished the letter had come by the one o clock post and went into his study. He rang for his housekeeper, and told her to go round the house at once, examine all the fastenings of the windows, and close all the shutters. He closed the shutters of his study himself. From a locked drawer in his bedroom he took a little revolver, examined it carefully, and put it into the pocket of his lounge jacket. He wrote a number of brief notes, one to Colonel Adye, gave them to his servant to take, with explicit instructions as to her way of leaving the house. "There is no danger," he said, and added a mental reservation, "to you." He remained meditative for a space after doing this, and then returned to his cooling lunch. He ate with gaps of thought. Finally he struck the table sharply. "We will have him!" he said; "and I am the bait. He will come too far." He went up to the belvedere, carefully shutting every door after him. "It s a game," he said, "an odd game but the chances are all for me, Mr. Griffin, in spite of your invisibility. Griffin _contra mundum_ ... with a vengeance." He stood at the window staring at the hot hillside. "He must get food every day and I don t envy him. Did he really sleep last night? Out in the open somewhere secure from collisions. I wish we could get some good cold wet weather instead of the heat." "He may be watching me now." He went close to the window. Something rapped smartly against the brickwork over the frame, and made him start violently back. "I m getting nervous," said Kemp. But it was five minutes before he went to the window again. "It must have been a sparrow," he said. Presently he heard the front-door bell ringing, and hurried downstairs. He unbolted and unlocked the door, examined the chain, put it up, and opened cautiously without showing himself. A familiar voice hailed him. It was Adye. "Your servant s been assaulted, Kemp," he said round the door. "What!" exclaimed Kemp. "Had that note of yours taken away from her. He s close about here. Let me in." Kemp released the chain, and Adye entered through as narrow an opening as possible. He stood in the hall, looking with infinite relief at Kemp refastening the door. "Note was snatched out of her hand. Scared her horribly. She s down at the station. Hysterics. He s close here. What was it about?" Kemp swore. "What a fool I was," said Kemp. "I might have known. It s not an hour s walk from Hintondean. Already?" "What s up?" said Adye. "Look here!" said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye the Invisible Man s letter. Adye read it and whistled softly. "And you ?" said Adye. "Proposed a trap like a fool," said Kemp, "and sent my proposal out by a maid servant. To him." Adye followed Kemp s profanity. "He ll clear out," said Adye. "Not he," said Kemp. A resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery glimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp s pocket. "It s a window, upstairs!" said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes" Another window went the way of its fellows. "You haven t a revolver?" asked Adye. Kemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s. "Sorry," said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. "Damn!" said Adye. The Voice laughed. "I d kill you now if it wasn t the waste of a bullet," it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off, covering him. "Well?" said Adye, sitting up. "Get up," said the Voice. Adye stood up. "Attention," said the Voice, and then fiercely, "Don t try any games. Remember I can see your face if you can t see mine. You ve got to go back to the house." "He won t let me in," said Adye. "That s a pity," said the Invisible Man. "I ve got no quarrel with you." Adye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the revolver and saw the sea far off very blue and dark under the midday sun, the smooth green down, the white cliff of the Head, and the multitudinous town, and suddenly he knew that life was very sweet. His eyes came back to this little metal thing hanging between heaven and earth, six yards away. "What am I to do?" he said sullenly. "What am _I_ to do?" asked the Invisible Man. "You will get help. The only thing is for you to go back." "I will try. If he lets me in will you promise not to rush the door?" "I ve got no quarrel with you," said the Voice. Kemp had hurried upstairs after letting Adye out, and now crouching among the broken glass and peering cautiously over the edge of the study window sill, he saw Adye stand parleying with the Unseen. "Why doesn t he fire?" whispered Kemp to himself. Then the revolver moved a little and the glint of the sunlight flashed in Kemp s eyes. He shaded his eyes and tried to see the source of the blinding beam. "Surely!" he said, "Adye has given up the revolver." "Promise not to rush the door," Adye was saying. "Don t push a winning game too
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It was Adye. "Your servant s been assaulted, Kemp," he said round the door. "What!" exclaimed Kemp. "Had that note of yours taken away from her. He s close about here. Let me in." Kemp released the chain, and Adye entered through as narrow an opening as possible. He stood in the hall, looking with infinite relief at Kemp refastening the door. "Note was snatched out of her hand. Scared her horribly. She s down at the station. Hysterics. He s close here. What was it about?" Kemp swore. "What a fool I was," said Kemp. "I might have known. It s not an hour s walk from Hintondean. Already?" "What s up?" said Adye. "Look here!" said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye the Invisible Man s letter. Adye read it and whistled softly. "And you ?" said Adye. "Proposed a trap like a fool," said Kemp, "and sent my proposal out by a maid servant. To him." Adye followed Kemp s profanity. "He ll clear out," said Adye. "Not he," said Kemp. A resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery glimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp s pocket. "It s a window, upstairs!" said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table. The two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room. "What s this for?" said Adye. "It s a beginning," said Kemp.<|quote|>"There s no way of climbing up here?"</|quote|>"Not for a cat," said Kemp. "No shutters?" "Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo!" Smash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. "Confound him!" said Kemp. "That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms. He s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up, and the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet." Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed. "I have it!" said Adye. "Let me have a stick or something, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes" Another window went the way of its fellows. "You haven t a revolver?" asked Adye. Kemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. "I haven t one at least to spare." "I ll bring it back," said Adye, "you ll be safe here." Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the weapon. "Now for the door," said Adye. As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual. "You must step straight out," said Kemp. In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him. "Stop a bit," said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the revolver. "Well?" said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense. "Oblige me by going back to the house," said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye s. "Sorry," said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to take his luck with a shot? "What are you going for?" said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye s pocket. Adye desisted and thought. "Where I go," he said slowly, "is my own business." The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. "Damn!" said Adye. The Voice laughed. "I d kill you now if it wasn t the waste of a bullet," it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet
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The Invisible Man
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he said, to cover his wandering attention,
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No speaker
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"It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be
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front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No
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thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man, eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What s that downstairs?" "Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. "I don t agree to this, Griffin," he said.
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And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man, eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What s that downstairs?" "Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. "I don t agree to this, Griffin," he said. "Understand me, I don t agree to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope to gain happiness? Don t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the world take the nation at least into your confidence. Think what you might do with
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particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man, whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I like. Escape as I like." Kemp s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs? "And it is killing we must do, Kemp." "It is killing we must do," repeated Kemp. "I m listening to your plan, Griffin, but I m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?" "Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know there is an Invisible Man as well as we know there is an Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man, eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What s that downstairs?" "Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. "I don t agree to this, Griffin," he said. "Understand me, I don t agree to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope to gain happiness? Don t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the world take the nation at least into your confidence. Think what you might do with a million helpers" The Invisible Man interrupted arm extended. "There are footsteps coming upstairs," he said in a low voice. "Nonsense," said Kemp. "Let me see," said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended, to the door. And then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second and then moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood still. "Traitor!" cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown opened, and sitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made three swift steps to the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man his legs had vanished sprang to his feet with
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one?" insisted Griffin. "Not a soul." "Ah! Now" The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo began to pace the study. "I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone it is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a little, and there is the end." "What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food and rest a thousand things are possible." "Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little advantage for eavesdropping and so forth one makes sounds. It s of little help a little help perhaps in housebreaking and so forth. Once you ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two cases: It s useful in getting away, it s useful in approaching. It s particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man, whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I like. Escape as I like." Kemp s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs? "And it is killing we must do, Kemp." "It is killing we must do," repeated Kemp. "I m listening to your plan, Griffin, but I m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?" "Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know there is an Invisible Man as well as we know there is an Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man, eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What s that downstairs?" "Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. "I don t agree to this, Griffin," he said. "Understand me, I don t agree to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope to gain happiness? Don t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the world take the nation at least into your confidence. Think what you might do with a million helpers" The Invisible Man interrupted arm extended. "There are footsteps coming upstairs," he said in a low voice. "Nonsense," said Kemp. "Let me see," said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended, to the door. And then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second and then moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood still. "Traitor!" cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown opened, and sitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made three swift steps to the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man his legs had vanished sprang to his feet with a shout. Kemp flung the door open. As it opened, there came a sound of hurrying feet downstairs and voices. With a quick movement Kemp thrust the Invisible Man back, sprang aside, and slammed the door. The key was outside and ready. In another moment Griffin would have been alone in the belvedere study, a prisoner. Save for one little thing. The key had been slipped in hastily that morning. As Kemp slammed the door it fell noisily upon the carpet. Kemp s face became white. He tried to grip the door handle with both hands. For a moment he stood lugging. Then the door gave six inches. But he got it closed again. The second time it was jerked a foot wide, and the dressing-gown came wedging itself into the opening. His throat was gripped by invisible fingers, and he left his hold on the handle to defend himself. He was forced back, tripped and pitched heavily into the corner of the landing. The empty dressing-gown was flung on the top of him. Halfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp s letter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at the sudden
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the possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who were advancing up the hill road with an intolerable slowness, as it seemed to Kemp. "What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port Burdock? _Had_ you any plan?" "I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that plan rather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the weather is hot and invisibility possible, to make for the South. Especially as my secret was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and muffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea was to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could go by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be difficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do things. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier, until I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me." "That s clear." "And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden my books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him!" "Best plan to get the books out of him first." "But where is he? Do you know?" "He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the strongest cell in the place." "Cur!" said the Invisible Man. "But that hangs up your plans a little." "We must get those books; those books are vital." "Certainly," said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard footsteps outside. "Certainly we must get those books. But that won t be difficult, if he doesn t know they re for you." "No," said the Invisible Man, and thought. Kemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the Invisible Man resumed of his own accord. "Blundering into your house, Kemp," he said, "changes all my plans. For you are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has happened, in spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of what I have suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities" "You have told no one I am here?" he asked abruptly. Kemp hesitated. "That was implied," he said. "No one?" insisted Griffin. "Not a soul." "Ah! Now" The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo began to pace the study. "I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone it is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a little, and there is the end." "What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food and rest a thousand things are possible." "Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little advantage for eavesdropping and so forth one makes sounds. It s of little help a little help perhaps in housebreaking and so forth. Once you ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two cases: It s useful in getting away, it s useful in approaching. It s particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man, whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I like. Escape as I like." Kemp s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs? "And it is killing we must do, Kemp." "It is killing we must do," repeated Kemp. "I m listening to your plan, Griffin, but I m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?" "Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know there is an Invisible Man as well as we know there is an Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man, eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What s that downstairs?" "Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. "I don t agree to this, Griffin," he said. "Understand me, I don t agree to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope to gain happiness? Don t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the world take the nation at least into your confidence. Think what you might do with a million helpers" The Invisible Man interrupted arm extended. "There are footsteps coming upstairs," he said in a low voice. "Nonsense," said Kemp. "Let me see," said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended, to the door. And then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second and then moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood still. "Traitor!" cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown opened, and sitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made three swift steps to the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man his legs had vanished sprang to his feet with a shout. Kemp flung the door open. As it opened, there came a sound of hurrying feet downstairs and voices. With a quick movement Kemp thrust the Invisible Man back, sprang aside, and slammed the door. The key was outside and ready. In another moment Griffin would have been alone in the belvedere study, a prisoner. Save for one little thing. The key had been slipped in hastily that morning. As Kemp slammed the door it fell noisily upon the carpet. Kemp s face became white. He tried to grip the door handle with both hands. For a moment he stood lugging. Then the door gave six inches. But he got it closed again. The second time it was jerked a foot wide, and the dressing-gown came wedging itself into the opening. His throat was gripped by invisible fingers, and he left his hold on the handle to defend himself. He was forced back, tripped and pitched heavily into the corner of the landing. The empty dressing-gown was flung on the top of him. Halfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp s letter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at the sudden appearance of Kemp, followed by the extraordinary sight of clothing tossing empty in the air. He saw Kemp felled, and struggling to his feet. He saw him rush forward, and go down again, felled like an ox. Then suddenly he was struck violently. By nothing! A vast weight, it seemed, leapt upon him, and he was hurled headlong down the staircase, with a grip on his throat and a knee in his groin. An invisible foot trod on his back, a ghostly patter passed downstairs, he heard the two police officers in the hall shout and run, and the front door of the house slammed violently. He rolled over and sat up staring. He saw, staggering down the staircase, Kemp, dusty and disheveled, one side of his face white from a blow, his lip bleeding, and a pink dressing-gown and some underclothing held in his arms. "My God!" cried Kemp, "the game s up! He s gone!" CHAPTER XXV. THE HUNTING OF THE INVISIBLE MAN For a space Kemp was too inarticulate to make Adye understand the swift things that had just happened. They stood on the landing, Kemp speaking swiftly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on his arm. But presently Adye began to grasp something of the situation. "He is mad," said Kemp; "inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks of nothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened to such a story this morning of brutal self-seeking.... He has wounded men. He will kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a panic. Nothing can stop him. He is going out now furious!" "He must be caught," said Adye. "That is certain." "But how?" cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. "You must begin at once. You must set every available man to work; you must prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away, he may go through the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of that! There is a man in your police station Marvel." "I know," said Adye,
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what I have suffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities" "You have told no one I am here?" he asked abruptly. Kemp hesitated. "That was implied," he said. "No one?" insisted Griffin. "Not a soul." "Ah! Now" The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo began to pace the study. "I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through alone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone it is wonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a little, and there is the end." "What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an arrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and unsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food and rest a thousand things are possible." "Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that invisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little advantage for eavesdropping and so forth one makes sounds. It s of little help a little help perhaps in housebreaking and so forth. Once you ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I am hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two cases: It s useful in getting away, it s useful in approaching. It s particularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man, whatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I like. Escape as I like." Kemp s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs? "And it is killing we must do, Kemp." "It is killing we must do," repeated Kemp. "I m listening to your plan, Griffin, but I m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing?" "Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know there is an Invisible Man as well as we know there is an Invisible Man. And that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror. Yes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must take some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must issue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper thrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he must kill, and kill all who would defend them." "Humph!" said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of his front door opening and closing. "It seems to me, Griffin,"<|quote|>he said, to cover his wandering attention,</|quote|>"that your confederate would be in a difficult position." "No one would know he was a confederate," said the Invisible Man, eagerly. And then suddenly, "Hush! What s that downstairs?" "Nothing," said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast. "I don t agree to this, Griffin," he said. "Understand me, I don t agree to this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope to gain happiness? Don t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the world take the nation at least into your confidence. Think what you might do with a million helpers" The Invisible Man interrupted arm extended. "There are footsteps coming upstairs," he said in a low voice. "Nonsense," said Kemp. "Let me see," said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended, to the door. And then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second and then moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood still. "Traitor!" cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown opened, and sitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made three swift steps to the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man his legs had vanished sprang to his feet with a shout. Kemp flung the door open. As it opened, there came a sound of hurrying feet downstairs and voices. With a quick movement Kemp thrust the Invisible Man back, sprang aside, and slammed the door. The key was outside and ready. In another moment Griffin would have been alone in the belvedere study, a prisoner. Save for one little thing. The key had been slipped in hastily that morning. As Kemp slammed the door it fell noisily upon the carpet. Kemp s face became white. He tried to grip the door handle with both hands. For a moment he stood lugging. Then the door gave six inches. But he got it closed again. The second time it was jerked a foot wide, and the dressing-gown came wedging itself into the opening. His throat was gripped by invisible fingers, and he left his hold on the handle to defend himself. He was forced back, tripped and pitched heavily into the corner of the landing. The empty dressing-gown was flung on the top of him. Halfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp s letter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at the sudden appearance of Kemp, followed by the extraordinary sight of clothing tossing empty in the air. He saw Kemp felled, and struggling to his feet. He saw him rush forward, and go down again, felled like an ox. Then suddenly he was struck violently. By nothing! A vast weight, it seemed, leapt upon him, and he was hurled headlong down the staircase, with a grip on his throat and a knee in his groin. An invisible foot trod on his back, a ghostly patter passed downstairs, he heard the two police officers in the hall shout and run, and the front door of the house slammed violently. He rolled over and sat up staring. He saw, staggering down the staircase, Kemp, dusty and disheveled, one side of his face white
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The Invisible Man
|
whispered Jem.
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No speaker
|
I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one
|
just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That
|
he crept onward, to be absent about a quarter of an hour, when he returned to say a few words in his native tongue, and then squat down and bury his face in his hands, as if in thought. "They're just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That is through the echoes, Jem. How are we to manage now?" Ngati answered the question in silence, for, rising quickly, after being deep in thought, he silently picked some grass and moss, rolled it into a pear shape, and bound
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them in coming, and for a moment Don thought that a sound which he had heard came from the thin greyish-black mud; but it was repeated, and was evidently the laugh of some one not far away. Ngati pressed their arms; and signing to them to lie down and wait, he crept onward, to be absent about a quarter of an hour, when he returned to say a few words in his native tongue, and then squat down and bury his face in his hands, as if in thought. "They're just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That is through the echoes, Jem. How are we to manage now?" Ngati answered the question in silence, for, rising quickly, after being deep in thought, he silently picked some grass and moss, rolled it into a pear shape, and bound it on the end of his spear. Then holding the weapon up high, he bent his body in a peculiar way, and stalked off slowly, turning and gazing here and there, and from time to time lowering his spear, till, as he moved about in the shadowy light, he had
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cautiously onward to get out of the deep rift, and find a place that would enable them to reach the higher ground. It was still dark, but not so dense but that they could pick their way, and they passed on till they reached the hot spring, a little beyond which Ngati believed that they could strike up to the left, and cross the mountain to reach the plains beyond. Another half-hour was devoted to retracing their steps, when Don stopped short, his ear being the first to detect danger. They were passing the mud spring, whose gurgling had startled them in coming, and for a moment Don thought that a sound which he had heard came from the thin greyish-black mud; but it was repeated, and was evidently the laugh of some one not far away. Ngati pressed their arms; and signing to them to lie down and wait, he crept onward, to be absent about a quarter of an hour, when he returned to say a few words in his native tongue, and then squat down and bury his face in his hands, as if in thought. "They're just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That is through the echoes, Jem. How are we to manage now?" Ngati answered the question in silence, for, rising quickly, after being deep in thought, he silently picked some grass and moss, rolled it into a pear shape, and bound it on the end of his spear. Then holding the weapon up high, he bent his body in a peculiar way, and stalked off slowly, turning and gazing here and there, and from time to time lowering his spear, till, as he moved about in the shadowy light, he had all the appearance of some huge ostrich slowly feeding its way along the mountain slope. "Moa! Moa!" he whispered, as he returned. "Jemmeree moa; my pakeha moa." "He wants us to imitate great birds, too, Jem," said Don, eagerly. "Can you do that?" "Can I do it?" said Jem. "O' course; you shall see." Ngati seemed delighted that his plan was understood, and he rapidly fashioned rough balls to resemble birds' heads for his companions' spears, and made them turn up their trousers above the knee, when, but for their white appearance, they both looked bird-like. But this difficulty was
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enemies. Apparently satisfied, he tapped both on the shoulder, and with a shudder of dread Don followed him along the side of the gulf. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. NGATI'S DISGUISE. The return journey proved to be less perilous than the descent. The awful chaos of water was beneath them, but invisible, the darkness being so intense that everything was hidden but the mass of rock over and by which they climbed. In addition, the exertion and busy action after the long waiting seemed to keep them from thinking of anything but the task on which they were engaged. So that, to Don's surprise, he found himself on the outer side of the dangerous corner, with the gulf left behind, and then clambering on and on by the side of the torrent chasm, past the other perilous parts, and before he could realise the fact, they were all together on the shelf, crouching down. Here Ngati slowly raised his head, to stand gazing over the edge at the level above, watching for a long time before stooping again, and uttering a low grunt. He mounted directly, bent down and extended a hand to each in turn, and then taking the lead, went cautiously onward to get out of the deep rift, and find a place that would enable them to reach the higher ground. It was still dark, but not so dense but that they could pick their way, and they passed on till they reached the hot spring, a little beyond which Ngati believed that they could strike up to the left, and cross the mountain to reach the plains beyond. Another half-hour was devoted to retracing their steps, when Don stopped short, his ear being the first to detect danger. They were passing the mud spring, whose gurgling had startled them in coming, and for a moment Don thought that a sound which he had heard came from the thin greyish-black mud; but it was repeated, and was evidently the laugh of some one not far away. Ngati pressed their arms; and signing to them to lie down and wait, he crept onward, to be absent about a quarter of an hour, when he returned to say a few words in his native tongue, and then squat down and bury his face in his hands, as if in thought. "They're just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That is through the echoes, Jem. How are we to manage now?" Ngati answered the question in silence, for, rising quickly, after being deep in thought, he silently picked some grass and moss, rolled it into a pear shape, and bound it on the end of his spear. Then holding the weapon up high, he bent his body in a peculiar way, and stalked off slowly, turning and gazing here and there, and from time to time lowering his spear, till, as he moved about in the shadowy light, he had all the appearance of some huge ostrich slowly feeding its way along the mountain slope. "Moa! Moa!" he whispered, as he returned. "Jemmeree moa; my pakeha moa." "He wants us to imitate great birds, too, Jem," said Don, eagerly. "Can you do that?" "Can I do it?" said Jem. "O' course; you shall see." Ngati seemed delighted that his plan was understood, and he rapidly fashioned rough balls to resemble birds' heads for his companions' spears, and made them turn up their trousers above the knee, when, but for their white appearance, they both looked bird-like. But this difficulty was got over by Ngati, who took it as a matter of course that they would not object, and rapidly smeared their hands, legs, and faces with the slimy mud from the volcanic pool. "Well, of all the nasty smells!" whispered Jem. "Oh, Mas' Don, are you going to stand this? He has filled my eyes with mud." "Hush, Jem!" whispered Don. "But shall we come across any hot baths by-and-by?" "Silence, Jem!" "All right, Mas' Don, you're master, but this is--oh, bad eggs!" Ngati held up his hand for silence, and then whispering the word "Moa" again, he imitated the movements of a gigantic bird, signing to them to do likewise. Don obeyed, and in spite of the peril they were in, could hardly help laughing, especially when Jem kept up an incessant growling, like that of some angry animal. Ngati was evidently satisfied, for he paused, and then pointing forward, strode slowly through the low bushes, with Don and Jem following and imitating his movements as nearly as they could. As they walked on they could hear the murmur of voices, and this sound increased as Ngati went slowly forward, bearing off to the left. It seemed to Don
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a very commonplace affair. His idea of danger was in the sight of enemies thirsting for his blood. Now that they were out of reach, and he believed that he had thrown them off the scent, he was perfectly content, and ready to smile at the perfection of the hiding-place he had sought. "Can you hear me, Jem?" said Don at last, after they had sat on the wet stones for some time, watching the falling water and listening to the thunderous roar. "Yes, if you shout quite close?" "Isn't it an awful place?" "Ay, 'tis." "Do you think we shall escape?" "I was thinking what a good job it was that we had managed a good feed." "How are we to get away again?" "Dunno. P'r'aps there's another way out." "I hope so. It will be horrible to have to go back as we came." Jem nodded, and began to nibble the dry skin at the side of his finger nails, looking up thoughtfully at the translucent arch. Then he nodded to Don as if he wished to speak, and Don put his ear close to Jem's lips. "Think there's much more on it to come down?" "More, Jem?" "Yes. 'Cause when it's all run out, they'll be able to see us." "I should think it is always falling like this, Jem." "Oh!" No more was said, and they sat patiently waiting for danger or freedom, whichever might be in store for them. Ngati held out his great fist from time to time to shake hands in a congratulatory way, and the hours glided on till it began to grow dark, and another horror assailed Don. It was evident that they must pass the night there in the cold and damp, for to attempt to escape in the dark would be madness, and how would it be if they dropped off to sleep and slipped? He shuddered at the thought, and sat in silence gazing at Ngati, who waited calmly till the shadows of evening had quite filled the chasm, when he rose, and it was evident that he did not consider escape in the darkness impossible, for, grasping Don's arm, he uttered the one word "Come!" and led the way out from beneath the watery arch, to stand, as soon as they were quite clear, shading his eyes and gazing through the transparent gloom in search of their enemies. Apparently satisfied, he tapped both on the shoulder, and with a shudder of dread Don followed him along the side of the gulf. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. NGATI'S DISGUISE. The return journey proved to be less perilous than the descent. The awful chaos of water was beneath them, but invisible, the darkness being so intense that everything was hidden but the mass of rock over and by which they climbed. In addition, the exertion and busy action after the long waiting seemed to keep them from thinking of anything but the task on which they were engaged. So that, to Don's surprise, he found himself on the outer side of the dangerous corner, with the gulf left behind, and then clambering on and on by the side of the torrent chasm, past the other perilous parts, and before he could realise the fact, they were all together on the shelf, crouching down. Here Ngati slowly raised his head, to stand gazing over the edge at the level above, watching for a long time before stooping again, and uttering a low grunt. He mounted directly, bent down and extended a hand to each in turn, and then taking the lead, went cautiously onward to get out of the deep rift, and find a place that would enable them to reach the higher ground. It was still dark, but not so dense but that they could pick their way, and they passed on till they reached the hot spring, a little beyond which Ngati believed that they could strike up to the left, and cross the mountain to reach the plains beyond. Another half-hour was devoted to retracing their steps, when Don stopped short, his ear being the first to detect danger. They were passing the mud spring, whose gurgling had startled them in coming, and for a moment Don thought that a sound which he had heard came from the thin greyish-black mud; but it was repeated, and was evidently the laugh of some one not far away. Ngati pressed their arms; and signing to them to lie down and wait, he crept onward, to be absent about a quarter of an hour, when he returned to say a few words in his native tongue, and then squat down and bury his face in his hands, as if in thought. "They're just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That is through the echoes, Jem. How are we to manage now?" Ngati answered the question in silence, for, rising quickly, after being deep in thought, he silently picked some grass and moss, rolled it into a pear shape, and bound it on the end of his spear. Then holding the weapon up high, he bent his body in a peculiar way, and stalked off slowly, turning and gazing here and there, and from time to time lowering his spear, till, as he moved about in the shadowy light, he had all the appearance of some huge ostrich slowly feeding its way along the mountain slope. "Moa! Moa!" he whispered, as he returned. "Jemmeree moa; my pakeha moa." "He wants us to imitate great birds, too, Jem," said Don, eagerly. "Can you do that?" "Can I do it?" said Jem. "O' course; you shall see." Ngati seemed delighted that his plan was understood, and he rapidly fashioned rough balls to resemble birds' heads for his companions' spears, and made them turn up their trousers above the knee, when, but for their white appearance, they both looked bird-like. But this difficulty was got over by Ngati, who took it as a matter of course that they would not object, and rapidly smeared their hands, legs, and faces with the slimy mud from the volcanic pool. "Well, of all the nasty smells!" whispered Jem. "Oh, Mas' Don, are you going to stand this? He has filled my eyes with mud." "Hush, Jem!" whispered Don. "But shall we come across any hot baths by-and-by?" "Silence, Jem!" "All right, Mas' Don, you're master, but this is--oh, bad eggs!" Ngati held up his hand for silence, and then whispering the word "Moa" again, he imitated the movements of a gigantic bird, signing to them to do likewise. Don obeyed, and in spite of the peril they were in, could hardly help laughing, especially when Jem kept up an incessant growling, like that of some angry animal. Ngati was evidently satisfied, for he paused, and then pointing forward, strode slowly through the low bushes, with Don and Jem following and imitating his movements as nearly as they could. As they walked on they could hear the murmur of voices, and this sound increased as Ngati went slowly forward, bearing off to the left. It seemed to Don that they were going straight into danger, and his heart beat with excitement as the talking suddenly stopped, and there was a rustling sound, as if several men had sprung to their feet. But Ngati did not swerve from his course, going slowly on, and raising the spear from time to time, while a low excited whispering went on. "What will they do?" thought Don; "try to spear us, or surround and seize us?" The Maoris did neither. Ngati knew the dread his fellow-countrymen possessed for anything approaching the supernatural, and in the belief that they would be startled at the sight of the huge birds known only to them by tradition, he had boldly adopted the disguise--one possible only in the darkness; and so far his plan was successful. To have attempted to pass in their ordinary shape meant either capture or death; but there was the chance that they might succeed like this. They went on in the most deliberate way, both Don and Jem following in Ngati's steps, but at every whisper on their right Don felt as if he must start off in a run; and over and over again he heard Jem utter a peculiar sigh. A harder test of their endurance it would have been difficult to find, as in momentary expectation of a rush, they stalked slowly on, till the whispering grew more distant, and finally died away. All at once Ngati paused to let them come up, and then pointed in the direction he intended to go, keeping up the imitation of the bird hour after hour, but not letting it interfere with their speed, till, feeling toward morning that they were safe, he once more halted, and was in the act of signing to his companions to cease their clumsy imitation, when a faint sound behind put him on his guard once more. The task had been in vain. They had passed the Maoris, and were making for the farther side of the mountains, but their enemies had been tracking them all the night, and the moment day broke, they would see through the cunning disguise, and dash upon them at once. They all knew this, and hastened on, as much to gain time as from any hope of escape, till just at daybreak, when, panting and exhausted, they were crossing a patch of brush, they became aware that the Maoris
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there in the cold and damp, for to attempt to escape in the dark would be madness, and how would it be if they dropped off to sleep and slipped? He shuddered at the thought, and sat in silence gazing at Ngati, who waited calmly till the shadows of evening had quite filled the chasm, when he rose, and it was evident that he did not consider escape in the darkness impossible, for, grasping Don's arm, he uttered the one word "Come!" and led the way out from beneath the watery arch, to stand, as soon as they were quite clear, shading his eyes and gazing through the transparent gloom in search of their enemies. Apparently satisfied, he tapped both on the shoulder, and with a shudder of dread Don followed him along the side of the gulf. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. NGATI'S DISGUISE. The return journey proved to be less perilous than the descent. The awful chaos of water was beneath them, but invisible, the darkness being so intense that everything was hidden but the mass of rock over and by which they climbed. In addition, the exertion and busy action after the long waiting seemed to keep them from thinking of anything but the task on which they were engaged. So that, to Don's surprise, he found himself on the outer side of the dangerous corner, with the gulf left behind, and then clambering on and on by the side of the torrent chasm, past the other perilous parts, and before he could realise the fact, they were all together on the shelf, crouching down. Here Ngati slowly raised his head, to stand gazing over the edge at the level above, watching for a long time before stooping again, and uttering a low grunt. He mounted directly, bent down and extended a hand to each in turn, and then taking the lead, went cautiously onward to get out of the deep rift, and find a place that would enable them to reach the higher ground. It was still dark, but not so dense but that they could pick their way, and they passed on till they reached the hot spring, a little beyond which Ngati believed that they could strike up to the left, and cross the mountain to reach the plains beyond. Another half-hour was devoted to retracing their steps, when Don stopped short, his ear being the first to detect danger. They were passing the mud spring, whose gurgling had startled them in coming, and for a moment Don thought that a sound which he had heard came from the thin greyish-black mud; but it was repeated, and was evidently the laugh of some one not far away. Ngati pressed their arms; and signing to them to lie down and wait, he crept onward, to be absent about a quarter of an hour, when he returned to say a few words in his native tongue, and then squat down and bury his face in his hands, as if in thought. "They're just in front, Mas' Don. I keep hearing of 'em,"<|quote|>whispered Jem.</|quote|>"Sometimes I hear 'em one way, sometimes the other." "That is through the echoes, Jem. How are we to manage now?" Ngati answered the question in silence, for, rising quickly, after being deep in thought, he silently picked some grass and moss, rolled it into a pear shape, and bound it on the end of his spear. Then holding the weapon up high, he bent his body in a peculiar way, and stalked off slowly, turning and gazing here and there, and from time to time lowering his spear, till, as he moved about in the shadowy light, he had all the appearance of some huge ostrich slowly feeding its way along the mountain slope. "Moa! Moa!" he whispered, as he returned. "Jemmeree moa; my pakeha moa." "He wants us to imitate great birds, too, Jem," said Don, eagerly. "Can you do that?" "Can I do it?" said Jem. "O' course; you shall see." Ngati seemed delighted that his plan was understood, and he rapidly fashioned rough balls to resemble birds' heads for his companions' spears, and made them turn up their trousers above the knee, when, but for their white appearance, they both looked bird-like. But this difficulty was got over by Ngati, who took it as a matter of course that they would not object, and rapidly smeared their hands, legs, and faces with the slimy mud from the volcanic pool. "Well, of all the nasty smells!" whispered Jem. "Oh, Mas' Don, are you going to stand this? He has filled my eyes with mud." "Hush, Jem!" whispered Don. "But shall we come across any hot baths by-and-by?" "Silence, Jem!" "All right, Mas' Don, you're master, but this is--oh, bad eggs!" Ngati held up his hand for silence, and then whispering the word "Moa" again, he imitated the movements of a gigantic bird, signing to them to do likewise. Don obeyed, and in spite of the peril they were in, could hardly help laughing, especially when Jem kept up an incessant growling, like that of some angry animal. Ngati was evidently satisfied, for he paused, and then pointing forward, strode slowly through the low bushes, with Don and Jem following and imitating his movements as nearly as they could. As they walked on they could hear the murmur of voices, and this sound increased as Ngati went slowly forward, bearing off to the left. It seemed to Don that they were going straight into danger, and his heart beat with excitement as the talking suddenly stopped, and there was a rustling sound, as if several men had sprung to their feet. But Ngati did not swerve from his course, going slowly on, and raising the spear from time to time, while a low excited whispering went on. "What will they do?" thought Don; "try to spear us, or surround and seize us?" The Maoris did neither. Ngati knew the dread his fellow-countrymen possessed for anything
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Don Lavington
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"Alas! my lord,"
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Sultan
|
cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how
|
prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how is it possible but I
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to pull down those she has raised. Where are they who enjoy quietly the happiness which they hold of her, and whose day is always clear and serene?" The sultan, moved with compassion to see him in such a condition, prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how is it possible but I should grieve, and my eyes be inexhaustible fountains of tears?" At these words, lifting up his robe, he showed the sultan that he was a man only from the head to the girdle, and that the other half of his
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meaning of the lake near the palace, where the fish are of four colours; whose castle is this; how you came to be here; and why you are alone." Instead of answering these questions, the young man began to weep bitterly. "How inconstant is fortune!" cried he; "she takes pleasure to pull down those she has raised. Where are they who enjoy quietly the happiness which they hold of her, and whose day is always clear and serene?" The sultan, moved with compassion to see him in such a condition, prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how is it possible but I should grieve, and my eyes be inexhaustible fountains of tears?" At these words, lifting up his robe, he showed the sultan that he was a man only from the head to the girdle, and that the other half of his body was black marble. The sultan was much surprised when he saw the deplorable condition of the young man. "That which you show me," said he, "while it fills me with horror, excites my curiosity, so that I am impatient to hear your history, which, no doubt, must be extraordinary,
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at the same time saying: "My lord, I should rise to receive you, but am hindered by sad necessity, and therefore hope you will not be offended." "My lord," replied the sultan, "I am much obliged to you for having so good an opinion of me: as to the reason of your not rising, whatever your apology be, I heartily accept it. Being drawn hither by your complaints, and afflicted by your grief, I come to offer you my help. I flatter myself that you will relate to me the history of your misfortunes; but inform me first of the meaning of the lake near the palace, where the fish are of four colours; whose castle is this; how you came to be here; and why you are alone." Instead of answering these questions, the young man began to weep bitterly. "How inconstant is fortune!" cried he; "she takes pleasure to pull down those she has raised. Where are they who enjoy quietly the happiness which they hold of her, and whose day is always clear and serene?" The sultan, moved with compassion to see him in such a condition, prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how is it possible but I should grieve, and my eyes be inexhaustible fountains of tears?" At these words, lifting up his robe, he showed the sultan that he was a man only from the head to the girdle, and that the other half of his body was black marble. The sultan was much surprised when he saw the deplorable condition of the young man. "That which you show me," said he, "while it fills me with horror, excites my curiosity, so that I am impatient to hear your history, which, no doubt, must be extraordinary, and I am persuaded that the lake and the fish make some part of it; therefore I conjure you to relate it. You will find some comfort in so doing, since it is certain that the unfortunate find relief in making known their distress." "I will not refuse your request," replied the young man, "though I cannot comply without renewing my grief. But I give you notice beforehand, to prepare your ears, your mind, and even your eyes, for things which surpass all that the imagination can conceive."
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the air with their harmonious notes, and always remained there, nets being spread over the garden, and fastened to the palace to confine them. The sultan walked from apartment to apartment, where he found everything rich and magnificent. Being tired with walking, he sat down in a veranda, which had a view over the garden, reflecting upon what he had seen, when suddenly he heard the voice of one complaining, in lamentable tones. He listened with attention, and heard distinctly these words: "O fortune! thou who wouldst not suffer me longer to enjoy a happy lot, forbear to persecute me, and by a speedy death put an end to my sorrows. Alas! is it possible that I am still alive, after so many torments as I have suffered!" The sultan rose up, advanced toward the place whence he heard the voice, and coming to the door of a great hall, opened it, and saw a handsome young man, richly habited, seated upon a throne raised a little above the ground. Melancholy was painted on his countenance. The sultan drew near and saluted him; the young man returned his salutation, by an inclination of his head, not being able to rise, at the same time saying: "My lord, I should rise to receive you, but am hindered by sad necessity, and therefore hope you will not be offended." "My lord," replied the sultan, "I am much obliged to you for having so good an opinion of me: as to the reason of your not rising, whatever your apology be, I heartily accept it. Being drawn hither by your complaints, and afflicted by your grief, I come to offer you my help. I flatter myself that you will relate to me the history of your misfortunes; but inform me first of the meaning of the lake near the palace, where the fish are of four colours; whose castle is this; how you came to be here; and why you are alone." Instead of answering these questions, the young man began to weep bitterly. "How inconstant is fortune!" cried he; "she takes pleasure to pull down those she has raised. Where are they who enjoy quietly the happiness which they hold of her, and whose day is always clear and serene?" The sultan, moved with compassion to see him in such a condition, prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how is it possible but I should grieve, and my eyes be inexhaustible fountains of tears?" At these words, lifting up his robe, he showed the sultan that he was a man only from the head to the girdle, and that the other half of his body was black marble. The sultan was much surprised when he saw the deplorable condition of the young man. "That which you show me," said he, "while it fills me with horror, excites my curiosity, so that I am impatient to hear your history, which, no doubt, must be extraordinary, and I am persuaded that the lake and the fish make some part of it; therefore I conjure you to relate it. You will find some comfort in so doing, since it is certain that the unfortunate find relief in making known their distress." "I will not refuse your request," replied the young man, "though I cannot comply without renewing my grief. But I give you notice beforehand, to prepare your ears, your mind, and even your eyes, for things which surpass all that the imagination can conceive."
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till the sun arose, and then he saw before him, at a considerable distance, a vast building. He rejoiced at the sight, in hopes of receiving there the information he sought. When he drew near, he found it was a magnificent palace, or rather a strong castle, of black polished marble, and covered with fine steel, as smooth as glass. Being highly pleased that he had so speedily met with something worthy his curiosity, he stopped before the front of the castle, and considered it with attention. He then advanced toward the gate, which had two leaves, one of them open; though he might immediately have entered, yet he thought it best to knock. This he did at first softly, and waited for some time; but seeing no one, and supposing he had not been heard, he knocked harder the second time, and after that he knocked again and again, but no one yet appearing, he was exceedingly surprised; for he could not think that a castle in such repair was without inhabitants. "If there be no one in it," said he to himself, "I have nothing to fear; and if it be inhabited, I have wherewith to defend myself." At last he entered, and when he came within the porch, he cried: "Is there no one here to receive a stranger who comes in for some refreshment as he passes by?" He repeated the same words two or three times; but though he spoke very loud, he was not answered. The silence increased his astonishment: he came into a spacious court, and looked on every side for inhabitants, but discovered none. Perceiving nobody in the court, he entered the grand halls, which were hung with silk tapestry, the alcoves and sofas covered with stuffs of Mecca, and the porches with the richest stuffs of India. He came afterward into a superb saloon, in the middle of which was a fountain, with a lion of massy gold at each angle: water issued from the mouths of the four lions, and as it fell, formed diamonds and pearls resembling a jet d'eau, which, springing from the middle of the fountain, rose nearly to the top of a cupola painted in Arabesque. The castle, on three sides, was encompassed by a garden, with parterres of flowers and shrubbery; and to complete the beauty of the place, an infinite number of birds filled the air with their harmonious notes, and always remained there, nets being spread over the garden, and fastened to the palace to confine them. The sultan walked from apartment to apartment, where he found everything rich and magnificent. Being tired with walking, he sat down in a veranda, which had a view over the garden, reflecting upon what he had seen, when suddenly he heard the voice of one complaining, in lamentable tones. He listened with attention, and heard distinctly these words: "O fortune! thou who wouldst not suffer me longer to enjoy a happy lot, forbear to persecute me, and by a speedy death put an end to my sorrows. Alas! is it possible that I am still alive, after so many torments as I have suffered!" The sultan rose up, advanced toward the place whence he heard the voice, and coming to the door of a great hall, opened it, and saw a handsome young man, richly habited, seated upon a throne raised a little above the ground. Melancholy was painted on his countenance. The sultan drew near and saluted him; the young man returned his salutation, by an inclination of his head, not being able to rise, at the same time saying: "My lord, I should rise to receive you, but am hindered by sad necessity, and therefore hope you will not be offended." "My lord," replied the sultan, "I am much obliged to you for having so good an opinion of me: as to the reason of your not rising, whatever your apology be, I heartily accept it. Being drawn hither by your complaints, and afflicted by your grief, I come to offer you my help. I flatter myself that you will relate to me the history of your misfortunes; but inform me first of the meaning of the lake near the palace, where the fish are of four colours; whose castle is this; how you came to be here; and why you are alone." Instead of answering these questions, the young man began to weep bitterly. "How inconstant is fortune!" cried he; "she takes pleasure to pull down those she has raised. Where are they who enjoy quietly the happiness which they hold of her, and whose day is always clear and serene?" The sultan, moved with compassion to see him in such a condition, prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how is it possible but I should grieve, and my eyes be inexhaustible fountains of tears?" At these words, lifting up his robe, he showed the sultan that he was a man only from the head to the girdle, and that the other half of his body was black marble. The sultan was much surprised when he saw the deplorable condition of the young man. "That which you show me," said he, "while it fills me with horror, excites my curiosity, so that I am impatient to hear your history, which, no doubt, must be extraordinary, and I am persuaded that the lake and the fish make some part of it; therefore I conjure you to relate it. You will find some comfort in so doing, since it is certain that the unfortunate find relief in making known their distress." "I will not refuse your request," replied the young man, "though I cannot comply without renewing my grief. But I give you notice beforehand, to prepare your ears, your mind, and even your eyes, for things which surpass all that the imagination can conceive."
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to receive a stranger who comes in for some refreshment as he passes by?" He repeated the same words two or three times; but though he spoke very loud, he was not answered. The silence increased his astonishment: he came into a spacious court, and looked on every side for inhabitants, but discovered none. Perceiving nobody in the court, he entered the grand halls, which were hung with silk tapestry, the alcoves and sofas covered with stuffs of Mecca, and the porches with the richest stuffs of India. He came afterward into a superb saloon, in the middle of which was a fountain, with a lion of massy gold at each angle: water issued from the mouths of the four lions, and as it fell, formed diamonds and pearls resembling a jet d'eau, which, springing from the middle of the fountain, rose nearly to the top of a cupola painted in Arabesque. The castle, on three sides, was encompassed by a garden, with parterres of flowers and shrubbery; and to complete the beauty of the place, an infinite number of birds filled the air with their harmonious notes, and always remained there, nets being spread over the garden, and fastened to the palace to confine them. The sultan walked from apartment to apartment, where he found everything rich and magnificent. Being tired with walking, he sat down in a veranda, which had a view over the garden, reflecting upon what he had seen, when suddenly he heard the voice of one complaining, in lamentable tones. He listened with attention, and heard distinctly these words: "O fortune! thou who wouldst not suffer me longer to enjoy a happy lot, forbear to persecute me, and by a speedy death put an end to my sorrows. Alas! is it possible that I am still alive, after so many torments as I have suffered!" The sultan rose up, advanced toward the place whence he heard the voice, and coming to the door of a great hall, opened it, and saw a handsome young man, richly habited, seated upon a throne raised a little above the ground. Melancholy was painted on his countenance. The sultan drew near and saluted him; the young man returned his salutation, by an inclination of his head, not being able to rise, at the same time saying: "My lord, I should rise to receive you, but am hindered by sad necessity, and therefore hope you will not be offended." "My lord," replied the sultan, "I am much obliged to you for having so good an opinion of me: as to the reason of your not rising, whatever your apology be, I heartily accept it. Being drawn hither by your complaints, and afflicted by your grief, I come to offer you my help. I flatter myself that you will relate to me the history of your misfortunes; but inform me first of the meaning of the lake near the palace, where the fish are of four colours; whose castle is this; how you came to be here; and why you are alone." Instead of answering these questions, the young man began to weep bitterly. "How inconstant is fortune!" cried he; "she takes pleasure to pull down those she has raised. Where are they who enjoy quietly the happiness which they hold of her, and whose day is always clear and serene?" The sultan, moved with compassion to see him in such a condition, prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief.<|quote|>"Alas! my lord,"</|quote|>replied the young man, "how is it possible but I should grieve, and my eyes be inexhaustible fountains of tears?" At these words, lifting up his robe, he showed the sultan that he was a man only from the head to the girdle, and that the other half of his body was black marble. The sultan was much surprised when he saw the deplorable condition of the young man. "That which you show me," said he, "while it fills me with horror, excites my curiosity, so that I am impatient to hear your history, which, no doubt, must be extraordinary, and I am persuaded that the lake and the fish make some part of it; therefore I conjure you to relate it. You will find some comfort in so doing, since it is certain that the unfortunate find relief in making known their distress." "I will not refuse your request," replied the young man, "though I cannot comply without renewing my grief. But I give you notice beforehand, to prepare your ears, your mind, and even your eyes, for things which surpass all that the imagination can conceive."
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Arabian Nights (2)
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Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.
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No speaker
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a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate
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enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so
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it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows
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Wish we was all going to run away now." "Do you, Jem?" "Ay, that I do; only we couldn't run away and leave the women and children, even if they are beaten." A terrible yelling and shrieking arose at that moment from behind where they stood, and as they turned, it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure. One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might
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make. D'yer hear? Load, I say; load!" "Can't, Jem," said Don sadly; "that was my last charge." "So it was mine, and I rammed in half-a-dozen stones as well to give 'em an extra dose. Think that's what made her burst?" "Of course it was, Jem." "Bad job; but it's done, and we've got the cutlash and spears. Which are you going to use?" "The spear. No; the cutlass, Jem." "Bravo, my lad! Phew! How my hand bleeds." "I'm afraid we shall be beaten, Jem." "I'm sure of it, my lad. My right hand, too; I can't hit with it. Wish we was all going to run away now." "Do you, Jem?" "Ay, that I do; only we couldn't run away and leave the women and children, even if they are beaten." A terrible yelling and shrieking arose at that moment from behind where they stood, and as they turned, it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure. One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might have used theirs in days of old; then there came a rush, a horrible crowding together, a sensation to Don as if some mountain had suddenly fallen on his head to crush out the hideous din of yelling and despairing shrieks, and then all was darkness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was still darkness, but the stars were shining brightly overhead, when Don opened his eyes again to begin wondering why his head should ache so terribly, and he should feel so cold. Those thoughts were only momentary, for a colder chill ran through him as on both sides of where he lay
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blood; while, as Don rapidly loaded once more, he saw that Tomati was leaning on his spear, and rocking himself slowly to and fro. "Are you hurt?" said Don, running up, and loading as he went. "Hurt, my lad? Yes: got it horrid. Look here, if you and him see a chance make for the mountain, and then go south'ard." "But shall we be beaten?" "We are beaten, my lad, only we can't show it. I'm about done." "Oh!" "Hush! Don't show the white feather, boy. Keep on firing, and the beggars outside may get tired first. If not--There, fire away!" He made a brave effort to seem unhurt, and went to assist his men; while once more Don and Jem ran to the side, and fired just in time to save the lashings of the fence; but Jem's pistol went off with quite a roar, and he flung the stock away, and stood shaking his bleeding fingers. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt! He says, `Am I hurt?' Why, the precious thing bursted all to shivers; and, oh, crumpets, don't it sting!" "Let me bind it up." "You go on and load; never mind me. Pretty sort o' soldier you'd make. D'yer hear? Load, I say; load!" "Can't, Jem," said Don sadly; "that was my last charge." "So it was mine, and I rammed in half-a-dozen stones as well to give 'em an extra dose. Think that's what made her burst?" "Of course it was, Jem." "Bad job; but it's done, and we've got the cutlash and spears. Which are you going to use?" "The spear. No; the cutlass, Jem." "Bravo, my lad! Phew! How my hand bleeds." "I'm afraid we shall be beaten, Jem." "I'm sure of it, my lad. My right hand, too; I can't hit with it. Wish we was all going to run away now." "Do you, Jem?" "Ay, that I do; only we couldn't run away and leave the women and children, even if they are beaten." A terrible yelling and shrieking arose at that moment from behind where they stood, and as they turned, it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure. One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might have used theirs in days of old; then there came a rush, a horrible crowding together, a sensation to Don as if some mountain had suddenly fallen on his head to crush out the hideous din of yelling and despairing shrieks, and then all was darkness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was still darkness, but the stars were shining brightly overhead, when Don opened his eyes again to begin wondering why his head should ache so terribly, and he should feel so cold. Those thoughts were only momentary, for a colder chill ran through him as on both sides of where he lay a low moaning sound arose, as of some one in pain. "Where am I?" he thought. "What is the matter?" Then he realised what had happened, for a familiar voice said almost in a whisper,-- "Poor little Sally! I wish she was here with a bit of rag." "Jem!" "Mas' Don! Oh! Thank the Lord! Amen! I thought--I thought--Oh! Oh!" A choking sensation rose in Don's throat, for he could hear close beside him the brave, true fellow sobbing like a woman. "Jem! Jem, old chap!" whispered Don. "Don't, pray don't do that." "I'm a-trying not to as hard as ever I can," whispered the poor fellow hoarsely; "but I've been bleeding like a pig, Mas' Don, and it's made me as weak as a great gal. You see I thought as you was dead." "No, no, Jem; I'm here safe, only--only my head aches, and I can't get my hands free." "No, my lad, more can't I. We're both tied up, hands and legs." "But the others? Where is Tomati?" "Don't ask me, my lad." "Oh, Jem!" There was a few minutes' awful silence, during which the low moaning sound went on from different places close at hand. "Where
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but there was constantly the depressing sight of some brave defender of the women and children staggering away from the fence, to fall dead, or to creep away out of the struggle to where the weeping women eagerly sought to staunch his wounds and give him water. "That's splendid, my lads! That's splendid! Ten times better than using a spear," cried Tomati, coming up to them again. "Plenty of powder and ball?" "Not a very great deal," said Don. "Be careful, then, and don't waste a shot. They can't stand that." "Shall we beat them off?" said Don, after seeing that his pistol was charged. "Beat them off? Why, of course. There you are again. Look sharp!" Once more the two pistols cleared the attacking Maoris from the top of the fence, where they were vainly trying to cut through the lashings; and, cheered on by these successes, the defenders yelled with delight, and used their spears with terrible effect. But the attacking party, after a recoil, came on again as stubbornly as ever, and it was plain enough to those who handled the firearms that it was only a question of time before the besieged would be beaten by numbers; and Don shuddered as he thought of the massacre that must ensue. He had been looking round, and then found that Jem was eyeing him fixedly. "Just what I was a-thinking, Mas' Don. We've fought like men; but we can't do impossibles, as I says to your uncle, when he wanted me to move a molasses barrel. Sooner we cuts and runs, the better." "I was not thinking of running, Jem." "Then you ought to have been, my lad; for there's them at home as wouldn't like us two to be killed." "Don't! Don't! Jem!" cried Don. "Come on. There's a man over! Two-- three--four! Look!" He ran toward the side, where a desperate attack was being made, and, as he said, four men were over, and others following, when once more the pistols sent down a couple who had mounted the fence, one of them being shot through the chest, the other dropping on seeing his companion fall, but with no further hurt than the fright caused by a bullet whistling by his ear. The four who were over made a desperate stand, but Tomati joined in the attack, and the daring fellows soon lay weltering in their blood; while, as Don rapidly loaded once more, he saw that Tomati was leaning on his spear, and rocking himself slowly to and fro. "Are you hurt?" said Don, running up, and loading as he went. "Hurt, my lad? Yes: got it horrid. Look here, if you and him see a chance make for the mountain, and then go south'ard." "But shall we be beaten?" "We are beaten, my lad, only we can't show it. I'm about done." "Oh!" "Hush! Don't show the white feather, boy. Keep on firing, and the beggars outside may get tired first. If not--There, fire away!" He made a brave effort to seem unhurt, and went to assist his men; while once more Don and Jem ran to the side, and fired just in time to save the lashings of the fence; but Jem's pistol went off with quite a roar, and he flung the stock away, and stood shaking his bleeding fingers. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt! He says, `Am I hurt?' Why, the precious thing bursted all to shivers; and, oh, crumpets, don't it sting!" "Let me bind it up." "You go on and load; never mind me. Pretty sort o' soldier you'd make. D'yer hear? Load, I say; load!" "Can't, Jem," said Don sadly; "that was my last charge." "So it was mine, and I rammed in half-a-dozen stones as well to give 'em an extra dose. Think that's what made her burst?" "Of course it was, Jem." "Bad job; but it's done, and we've got the cutlash and spears. Which are you going to use?" "The spear. No; the cutlass, Jem." "Bravo, my lad! Phew! How my hand bleeds." "I'm afraid we shall be beaten, Jem." "I'm sure of it, my lad. My right hand, too; I can't hit with it. Wish we was all going to run away now." "Do you, Jem?" "Ay, that I do; only we couldn't run away and leave the women and children, even if they are beaten." A terrible yelling and shrieking arose at that moment from behind where they stood, and as they turned, it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure. One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might have used theirs in days of old; then there came a rush, a horrible crowding together, a sensation to Don as if some mountain had suddenly fallen on his head to crush out the hideous din of yelling and despairing shrieks, and then all was darkness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was still darkness, but the stars were shining brightly overhead, when Don opened his eyes again to begin wondering why his head should ache so terribly, and he should feel so cold. Those thoughts were only momentary, for a colder chill ran through him as on both sides of where he lay a low moaning sound arose, as of some one in pain. "Where am I?" he thought. "What is the matter?" Then he realised what had happened, for a familiar voice said almost in a whisper,-- "Poor little Sally! I wish she was here with a bit of rag." "Jem!" "Mas' Don! Oh! Thank the Lord! Amen! I thought--I thought--Oh! Oh!" A choking sensation rose in Don's throat, for he could hear close beside him the brave, true fellow sobbing like a woman. "Jem! Jem, old chap!" whispered Don. "Don't, pray don't do that." "I'm a-trying not to as hard as ever I can," whispered the poor fellow hoarsely; "but I've been bleeding like a pig, Mas' Don, and it's made me as weak as a great gal. You see I thought as you was dead." "No, no, Jem; I'm here safe, only--only my head aches, and I can't get my hands free." "No, my lad, more can't I. We're both tied up, hands and legs." "But the others? Where is Tomati?" "Don't ask me, my lad." "Oh, Jem!" There was a few minutes' awful silence, during which the low moaning sound went on from different places close at hand. "Where is Ngati?" whispered Don at last. "Half killed, or dead, Mas' Don," said Jem, sadly. "We're reg'lar beat. But, my word, Mas' Don, I am sorry." "Sorry? Of course." "Ah! But I mean for all I said about the poor fellows. I thought they couldn't fight." "The women and children, Jem?" "All prisoners, 'cept some as would fight, and they--" "Yes--go on." "They served them same as they did those poor chaps as wouldn't give in." "How horrible!" "Ah, 'tis horrid, my lad; and I've been wishing we hadn't cut and run. We was better off on board ship." "It's of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?" "Hand's all cut about with that pistol busting, and there's a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas' Don. Not much hurt, are you?" "I don't know, Jem. I can remember nothing." "Good job for you, my lad. One of 'em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he'd killed you, so I--" Jem ceased speaking. "Well, go on," whispered Don. "That's all," said Jem, sullenly. "But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me." "Was I? Ah, well, I forget now." Don was silent, for Jem had given him something terrible to dwell upon as he tried to think. At last he spoke again. "Where are the enemy, Jem?" "Enemy, indeed!" growled Jem. "Savages like them don't deserve such a fine name. Brutes!" "But where are they? Did you see what they did?" "See? Yes. Don't ask me." "But where are they?" "Sleep. Drunk, I think. After they'd tied us prisoners all up and shut up all the women and children in the big _whare_, what do you think they did?" "Kill them?" "Killed 'em? No. Lit fires, and set to and had a reg'lar feast, and danced about--them as could!" added Jem with a chuckle. "Some on 'em had got too many holes in 'em to enjoy dancing much. But, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem." "Don't ask me to tell you no more, my lad. I'm too badly, just now. Think you could go to sleep?" "I don't know, Jem. I don't think so." "I'd say, let's try and get ourselves loose, and set to
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fence; but Jem's pistol went off with quite a roar, and he flung the stock away, and stood shaking his bleeding fingers. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt! He says, `Am I hurt?' Why, the precious thing bursted all to shivers; and, oh, crumpets, don't it sting!" "Let me bind it up." "You go on and load; never mind me. Pretty sort o' soldier you'd make. D'yer hear? Load, I say; load!" "Can't, Jem," said Don sadly; "that was my last charge." "So it was mine, and I rammed in half-a-dozen stones as well to give 'em an extra dose. Think that's what made her burst?" "Of course it was, Jem." "Bad job; but it's done, and we've got the cutlash and spears. Which are you going to use?" "The spear. No; the cutlass, Jem." "Bravo, my lad! Phew! How my hand bleeds." "I'm afraid we shall be beaten, Jem." "I'm sure of it, my lad. My right hand, too; I can't hit with it. Wish we was all going to run away now." "Do you, Jem?" "Ay, that I do; only we couldn't run away and leave the women and children, even if they are beaten." A terrible yelling and shrieking arose at that moment from behind where they stood, and as they turned, it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED.<|quote|>Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death.</|quote|>Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure. One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might have used theirs in days of old; then there came a rush, a horrible crowding together, a sensation to Don as if some mountain had suddenly fallen on his head to crush out the hideous din of yelling and despairing shrieks, and then all was darkness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was still darkness, but the stars were shining brightly overhead, when Don opened his eyes again to begin wondering why his head should ache so terribly, and he should feel so cold. Those thoughts were only momentary, for a colder chill ran through him as on both sides of where he lay a low moaning sound arose, as of some one in pain. "Where am I?" he thought. "What is the matter?" Then he realised what had happened, for a familiar voice said almost in a whisper,-- "Poor little Sally! I wish she was here with a bit of rag." "Jem!" "Mas' Don! Oh! Thank the Lord! Amen! I thought--I thought--Oh! Oh!" A choking sensation rose in Don's throat, for he could hear close beside him the brave, true fellow sobbing like a woman. "Jem! Jem, old chap!" whispered Don. "Don't, pray don't do that." "I'm a-trying not to as hard as ever I can," whispered the poor fellow hoarsely; "but I've been bleeding like a pig, Mas' Don, and it's made me as weak as a great gal. You see I thought as you was dead." "No, no, Jem; I'm here safe, only--only my head aches, and I can't get my hands free." "No, my lad, more can't I. We're both tied up, hands and legs." "But the others? Where is Tomati?" "Don't
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Don Lavington
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"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."
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Ellen Olenska
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"You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the
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of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the simplest manner, as if she
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apparently unaware of having broken any rule; she sat at perfect ease in a corner of the sofa beside Archer, and looked at him with the kindest eyes. "I want you to talk to me about May," she said. Instead of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the simplest manner, as if she had said: "He's fond of wild-flowers"; and after a moment she added candidly: "I think he's the dullest man I ever met." This pleased her companion so much that he forgot the slight shock her previous remark had caused him.
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drawing-rooms for a lady to get up and walk away from one gentleman in order to seek the company of another. Etiquette required that she should wait, immovable as an idol, while the men who wished to converse with her succeeded each other at her side. But the Countess was apparently unaware of having broken any rule; she sat at perfect ease in a corner of the sofa beside Archer, and looked at him with the kindest eyes. "I want you to talk to me about May," she said. Instead of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the simplest manner, as if she had said: "He's fond of wild-flowers"; and after a moment she added candidly: "I think he's the dullest man I ever met." This pleased her companion so much that he forgot the slight shock her previous remark had caused him. It was undeniably exciting to meet a lady who found the van der Luydens' Duke dull, and dared to utter the opinion. He longed to question her, to hear more about the life of which her careless words had given him so illuminating a glimpse; but he feared to touch
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in a corner and plunged into animated talk. Neither seemed aware that the Duke should first have paid his respects to Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Headly Chivers, and the Countess have conversed with that amiable hypochondriac, Mr. Urban Dagonet of Washington Square, who, in order to have the pleasure of meeting her, had broken through his fixed rule of not dining out between January and April. The two chatted together for nearly twenty minutes; then the Countess rose and, walking alone across the wide drawing-room, sat down at Newland Archer's side. It was not the custom in New York drawing-rooms for a lady to get up and walk away from one gentleman in order to seek the company of another. Etiquette required that she should wait, immovable as an idol, while the men who wished to converse with her succeeded each other at her side. But the Countess was apparently unaware of having broken any rule; she sat at perfect ease in a corner of the sofa beside Archer, and looked at him with the kindest eyes. "I want you to talk to me about May," she said. Instead of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the simplest manner, as if she had said: "He's fond of wild-flowers"; and after a moment she added candidly: "I think he's the dullest man I ever met." This pleased her companion so much that he forgot the slight shock her previous remark had caused him. It was undeniably exciting to meet a lady who found the van der Luydens' Duke dull, and dared to utter the opinion. He longed to question her, to hear more about the life of which her careless words had given him so illuminating a glimpse; but he feared to touch on distressing memories, and before he could think of anything to say she had strayed back to her original subject. "May is a darling; I've seen no young girl in New York so handsome and so intelligent. Are you very much in love with her?" Newland Archer reddened and laughed. "As much as a man can be." She continued to consider him thoughtfully, as if not to miss any shade of meaning in what he said, "Do you think, then, there is a limit?" "To being in love? If there is, I haven't found it!" She glowed with sympathy. "Ah--it's
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diamond necklaces and towering ostrich feathers, they struck him as curiously immature compared with hers. It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes. The Duke of St. Austrey, who sat at his hostess's right, was naturally the chief figure of the evening. But if the Countess Olenska was less conspicuous than had been hoped, the Duke was almost invisible. Being a well-bred man he had not (like another recent ducal visitor) come to the dinner in a shooting-jacket; but his evening clothes were so shabby and baggy, and he wore them with such an air of their being homespun, that (with his stooping way of sitting, and the vast beard spreading over his shirt-front) he hardly gave the appearance of being in dinner attire. He was short, round-shouldered, sunburnt, with a thick nose, small eyes and a sociable smile; but he seldom spoke, and when he did it was in such low tones that, despite the frequent silences of expectation about the table, his remarks were lost to all but his neighbours. When the men joined the ladies after dinner the Duke went straight up to the Countess Olenska, and they sat down in a corner and plunged into animated talk. Neither seemed aware that the Duke should first have paid his respects to Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Headly Chivers, and the Countess have conversed with that amiable hypochondriac, Mr. Urban Dagonet of Washington Square, who, in order to have the pleasure of meeting her, had broken through his fixed rule of not dining out between January and April. The two chatted together for nearly twenty minutes; then the Countess rose and, walking alone across the wide drawing-room, sat down at Newland Archer's side. It was not the custom in New York drawing-rooms for a lady to get up and walk away from one gentleman in order to seek the company of another. Etiquette required that she should wait, immovable as an idol, while the men who wished to converse with her succeeded each other at her side. But the Countess was apparently unaware of having broken any rule; she sat at perfect ease in a corner of the sofa beside Archer, and looked at him with the kindest eyes. "I want you to talk to me about May," she said. Instead of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the simplest manner, as if she had said: "He's fond of wild-flowers"; and after a moment she added candidly: "I think he's the dullest man I ever met." This pleased her companion so much that he forgot the slight shock her previous remark had caused him. It was undeniably exciting to meet a lady who found the van der Luydens' Duke dull, and dared to utter the opinion. He longed to question her, to hear more about the life of which her careless words had given him so illuminating a glimpse; but he feared to touch on distressing memories, and before he could think of anything to say she had strayed back to her original subject. "May is a darling; I've seen no young girl in New York so handsome and so intelligent. Are you very much in love with her?" Newland Archer reddened and laughed. "As much as a man can be." She continued to consider him thoughtfully, as if not to miss any shade of meaning in what he said, "Do you think, then, there is a limit?" "To being in love? If there is, I haven't found it!" She glowed with sympathy. "Ah--it's really and truly a romance?" "The most romantic of romances!" "How delightful! And you found it all out for yourselves--it was not in the least arranged for you?" Archer looked at her incredulously. "Have you forgotten," he asked with a smile, "that in our country we don't allow our marriages to be arranged for us?" A dusky blush rose to her cheek, and he instantly regretted his words. "Yes," she answered, "I'd forgotten. You must forgive me if I sometimes make these mistakes. I don't always remember that everything here is good that was--that was bad where I've come from." She looked down at her Viennese fan of eagle feathers, and he saw that her lips trembled. "I'm so sorry," he said impulsively; "but you ARE among friends here, you know." "Yes--I know. Wherever I go I have that feeling. That's why I came home. I want to forget everything else, to become a complete American again, like the Mingotts and Wellands, and you and your delightful mother, and all the other good people here tonight. Ah, here's May arriving, and you will want to hurry away to her," she added, but without moving; and her eyes turned back from
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But there was about her the mysterious authority of beauty, a sureness in the carriage of the head, the movement of the eyes, which, without being in the least theatrical, struck his as highly trained and full of a conscious power. At the same time she was simpler in manner than most of the ladies present, and many people (as he heard afterward from Janey) were disappointed that her appearance was not more "stylish"--for stylishness was what New York most valued. It was, perhaps, Archer reflected, because her early vivacity had disappeared; because she was so quiet--quiet in her movements, her voice, and the tones of her low-pitched voice. New York had expected something a good deal more reasonant in a young woman with such a history. The dinner was a somewhat formidable business. Dining with the van der Luydens was at best no light matter, and dining there with a Duke who was their cousin was almost a religious solemnity. It pleased Archer to think that only an old New Yorker could perceive the shade of difference (to New York) between being merely a Duke and being the van der Luydens' Duke. New York took stray noblemen calmly, and even (except in the Struthers set) with a certain distrustful hauteur; but when they presented such credentials as these they were received with an old-fashioned cordiality that they would have been greatly mistaken in ascribing solely to their standing in Debrett. It was for just such distinctions that the young man cherished his old New York even while he smiled at it. The van der Luydens had done their best to emphasise the importance of the occasion. The du Lac Sevres and the Trevenna George II plate were out; so was the van der Luyden "Lowestoft" (East India Company) and the Dagonet Crown Derby. Mrs. van der Luyden looked more than ever like a Cabanel, and Mrs. Archer, in her grandmother's seed-pearls and emeralds, reminded her son of an Isabey miniature. All the ladies had on their handsomest jewels, but it was characteristic of the house and the occasion that these were mostly in rather heavy old-fashioned settings; and old Miss Lanning, who had been persuaded to come, actually wore her mother's cameos and a Spanish blonde shawl. The Countess Olenska was the only young woman at the dinner; yet, as Archer scanned the smooth plump elderly faces between their diamond necklaces and towering ostrich feathers, they struck him as curiously immature compared with hers. It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes. The Duke of St. Austrey, who sat at his hostess's right, was naturally the chief figure of the evening. But if the Countess Olenska was less conspicuous than had been hoped, the Duke was almost invisible. Being a well-bred man he had not (like another recent ducal visitor) come to the dinner in a shooting-jacket; but his evening clothes were so shabby and baggy, and he wore them with such an air of their being homespun, that (with his stooping way of sitting, and the vast beard spreading over his shirt-front) he hardly gave the appearance of being in dinner attire. He was short, round-shouldered, sunburnt, with a thick nose, small eyes and a sociable smile; but he seldom spoke, and when he did it was in such low tones that, despite the frequent silences of expectation about the table, his remarks were lost to all but his neighbours. When the men joined the ladies after dinner the Duke went straight up to the Countess Olenska, and they sat down in a corner and plunged into animated talk. Neither seemed aware that the Duke should first have paid his respects to Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Headly Chivers, and the Countess have conversed with that amiable hypochondriac, Mr. Urban Dagonet of Washington Square, who, in order to have the pleasure of meeting her, had broken through his fixed rule of not dining out between January and April. The two chatted together for nearly twenty minutes; then the Countess rose and, walking alone across the wide drawing-room, sat down at Newland Archer's side. It was not the custom in New York drawing-rooms for a lady to get up and walk away from one gentleman in order to seek the company of another. Etiquette required that she should wait, immovable as an idol, while the men who wished to converse with her succeeded each other at her side. But the Countess was apparently unaware of having broken any rule; she sat at perfect ease in a corner of the sofa beside Archer, and looked at him with the kindest eyes. "I want you to talk to me about May," she said. Instead of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the simplest manner, as if she had said: "He's fond of wild-flowers"; and after a moment she added candidly: "I think he's the dullest man I ever met." This pleased her companion so much that he forgot the slight shock her previous remark had caused him. It was undeniably exciting to meet a lady who found the van der Luydens' Duke dull, and dared to utter the opinion. He longed to question her, to hear more about the life of which her careless words had given him so illuminating a glimpse; but he feared to touch on distressing memories, and before he could think of anything to say she had strayed back to her original subject. "May is a darling; I've seen no young girl in New York so handsome and so intelligent. Are you very much in love with her?" Newland Archer reddened and laughed. "As much as a man can be." She continued to consider him thoughtfully, as if not to miss any shade of meaning in what he said, "Do you think, then, there is a limit?" "To being in love? If there is, I haven't found it!" She glowed with sympathy. "Ah--it's really and truly a romance?" "The most romantic of romances!" "How delightful! And you found it all out for yourselves--it was not in the least arranged for you?" Archer looked at her incredulously. "Have you forgotten," he asked with a smile, "that in our country we don't allow our marriages to be arranged for us?" A dusky blush rose to her cheek, and he instantly regretted his words. "Yes," she answered, "I'd forgotten. You must forgive me if I sometimes make these mistakes. I don't always remember that everything here is good that was--that was bad where I've come from." She looked down at her Viennese fan of eagle feathers, and he saw that her lips trembled. "I'm so sorry," he said impulsively; "but you ARE among friends here, you know." "Yes--I know. Wherever I go I have that feeling. That's why I came home. I want to forget everything else, to become a complete American again, like the Mingotts and Wellands, and you and your delightful mother, and all the other good people here tonight. Ah, here's May arriving, and you will want to hurry away to her," she added, but without moving; and her eyes turned back from the door to rest on the young man's face. The drawing-rooms were beginning to fill up with after-dinner guests, and following Madame Olenska's glance Archer saw May Welland entering with her mother. In her dress of white and silver, with a wreath of silver blossoms in her hair, the tall girl looked like a Diana just alight from the chase. "Oh," said Archer, "I have so many rivals; you see she's already surrounded. There's the Duke being introduced." "Then stay with me a little longer," Madame Olenska said in a low tone, just touching his knee with her plumed fan. It was the lightest touch, but it thrilled him like a caress. "Yes, let me stay," he answered in the same tone, hardly knowing what he said; but just then Mr. van der Luyden came up, followed by old Mr. Urban Dagonet. The Countess greeted them with her grave smile, and Archer, feeling his host's admonitory glance on him, rose and surrendered his seat. Madame Olenska held out her hand as if to bid him goodbye. "Tomorrow, then, after five--I shall expect you," she said; and then turned back to make room for Mr. Dagonet. "Tomorrow--" Archer heard himself repeating, though there had been no engagement, and during their talk she had given him no hint that she wished to see him again. As he moved away he saw Lawrence Lefferts, tall and resplendent, leading his wife up to be introduced; and heard Gertrude Lefferts say, as she beamed on the Countess with her large unperceiving smile: "But I think we used to go to dancing-school together when we were children--." Behind her, waiting their turn to name themselves to the Countess, Archer noticed a number of the recalcitrant couples who had declined to meet her at Mrs. Lovell Mingott's. As Mrs. Archer remarked: when the van der Luydens chose, they knew how to give a lesson. The wonder was that they chose so seldom. The young man felt a touch on his arm and saw Mrs. van der Luyden looking down on him from the pure eminence of black velvet and the family diamonds. "It was good of you, dear Newland, to devote yourself so unselfishly to Madame Olenska. I told your cousin Henry he must really come to the rescue." He was aware of smiling at her vaguely, and she added, as if condescending to his natural shyness:
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to the making of her eyes. The Duke of St. Austrey, who sat at his hostess's right, was naturally the chief figure of the evening. But if the Countess Olenska was less conspicuous than had been hoped, the Duke was almost invisible. Being a well-bred man he had not (like another recent ducal visitor) come to the dinner in a shooting-jacket; but his evening clothes were so shabby and baggy, and he wore them with such an air of their being homespun, that (with his stooping way of sitting, and the vast beard spreading over his shirt-front) he hardly gave the appearance of being in dinner attire. He was short, round-shouldered, sunburnt, with a thick nose, small eyes and a sociable smile; but he seldom spoke, and when he did it was in such low tones that, despite the frequent silences of expectation about the table, his remarks were lost to all but his neighbours. When the men joined the ladies after dinner the Duke went straight up to the Countess Olenska, and they sat down in a corner and plunged into animated talk. Neither seemed aware that the Duke should first have paid his respects to Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Headly Chivers, and the Countess have conversed with that amiable hypochondriac, Mr. Urban Dagonet of Washington Square, who, in order to have the pleasure of meeting her, had broken through his fixed rule of not dining out between January and April. The two chatted together for nearly twenty minutes; then the Countess rose and, walking alone across the wide drawing-room, sat down at Newland Archer's side. It was not the custom in New York drawing-rooms for a lady to get up and walk away from one gentleman in order to seek the company of another. Etiquette required that she should wait, immovable as an idol, while the men who wished to converse with her succeeded each other at her side. But the Countess was apparently unaware of having broken any rule; she sat at perfect ease in a corner of the sofa beside Archer, and looked at him with the kindest eyes. "I want you to talk to me about May," she said. Instead of answering her he asked: "You knew the Duke before?"<|quote|>"Oh, yes--we used to see him every winter at Nice. He's very fond of gambling--he used to come to the house a great deal."</|quote|>She said it in the simplest manner, as if she had said: "He's fond of wild-flowers"; and after a moment she added candidly: "I think he's the dullest man I ever met." This pleased her companion so much that he forgot the slight shock her previous remark had caused him. It was undeniably exciting to meet a lady who found the van der Luydens' Duke dull, and dared to utter the opinion. He longed to question her, to hear more about the life of which her careless words had given him so illuminating a glimpse; but he feared to touch on distressing memories, and before he could think of anything to say she had strayed back to her original subject. "May is a darling; I've seen no young girl in New York so handsome and so intelligent. Are you very much in love with her?" Newland Archer reddened and laughed. "As much as a man can be." She continued to consider him thoughtfully, as if not to miss any shade of meaning in what he said, "Do you think, then, there is a limit?" "To being in love? If there is, I haven't found it!" She glowed with sympathy. "Ah--it's really and truly a romance?" "The most romantic of romances!" "How delightful! And you found it all out for yourselves--it was not in the least arranged for you?" Archer looked at her incredulously. "Have you forgotten," he asked with a smile, "that in our country we don't allow our marriages to be arranged for us?" A dusky blush rose to her cheek, and he instantly regretted his words. "Yes," she answered, "I'd forgotten. You must forgive me if I sometimes make these mistakes. I don't always remember that
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The Age Of Innocence
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"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"
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Mr. Frank Churchill
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she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the
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little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I
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for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the
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any fears, sir.' "How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!" "Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you." Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off
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when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight." "I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole." "There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles?" 'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' "How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!" "Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you." Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect. "Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined." "My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as
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Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it." "Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have often known it done myself." "Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done." "But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--" "Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own stable." "So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight." "I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole." "There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles?" 'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' "How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!" "Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you." Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect. "Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined." "My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our club-nights." The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never know when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares." One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built, suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper. Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set
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what we all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you consent?" "It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?" She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable. "No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown in his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh! no--a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere." "I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, "that one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could." "Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house." "From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no occasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief." "Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!--I am sure, neither your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it." "Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have often known it done myself." "Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done." "But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--" "Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own stable." "So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight." "I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole." "There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles?" 'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' "How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!" "Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you." Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect. "Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined." "My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our club-nights." The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never know when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares." One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built, suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper. Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed, "I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know." And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the passage, was calling out, "You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs." "I wish," said Mrs. Weston, "one could know which arrangement our guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing must be our object--if one could but tell what that would be." "Yes, very true," cried Frank, "very true. You want your neighbours' opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief of them--the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.--And I do not know whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?" "Well--if you please," said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, "if you think she will be of any use." "You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates," said Emma. "She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates." "But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know." Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation. "Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of
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may talk it over, and see what can be done." "But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--" "Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own stable." "So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight." "I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole." "There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles?" 'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' "How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!" "Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."<|quote|>"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"</|quote|>said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you." Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect. "Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined." "My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our club-nights." The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never know when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares." One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built, suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper. Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed, "I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know." And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the passage, was calling out, "You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs." "I wish," said Mrs. Weston, "one could know which arrangement our guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing must be our object--if one could but tell what that would be." "Yes, very true," cried Frank, "very true. You want your neighbours' opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief of them--the
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Emma
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"That's the chimney roaring."
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Jem Wimble
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and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere
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plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and
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and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous
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sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all
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didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to
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here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping on for a short distance, trailing his spear, till they were well behind a pile of rocks. Here he gave a sharp look round at the _cul de sac_ into which they had been driven, and without hesitation crept to their left to where the rocky wall descended to the
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painful to the hand. From time to time Ngati had stopped to listen, the shouts growing fainter each time, while, as they progressed, a heavy thunderous roar grew louder, died away, and grew louder again. Don looked inquiringly at Jem. "It's the big chimney of that mountain drawing, Mas' Don." "Nonsense!" "Nay, that's what it is; and what I say is this. It's all wery well getting away from them cannibals, but don't let's let old Ngati--" The chief looked sharply round. "Yes, I'm a-talking about you, old chap. I say, you're not to take us right up that mountain, and into a place where we shall tumble in." "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" said Ngati, nodding his head, and pointing toward the steaming cloud above the mountain. "Oh, you aggrawating savage!" cried Jem. Ngati took it as a compliment, and smiled. Then, pointing to a cluster of rocks where a jet of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing. "And the water's boiling hot," added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping on for a short distance, trailing his spear, till they were well behind a pile of rocks. Here he gave a sharp look round at the _cul de sac_ into which they had been driven, and without hesitation crept to their left to where the rocky wall descended to the raging torrent. To him the place seemed to have no danger, as he passed over the edge and disappeared, but to Don it was like seeking death. "We can never do it, Jem," he said. "Must, Mas' Don. Go on." Don looked at him wildly, and then in a fit of desperation he lowered himself over the edge, felt a pair of great hands grasp him by the loins, and, as he loosened his hold, he was dropped upon a rough ledge of rock, where he stood giddy and confused, with the torrent rushing furiously along beneath his feet, and in front, dimly-seen through a mist which rose from below, he caught a glimpse of a huge fall of water which came from high up, behind some projecting rocks, and disappeared below. The noise of falling water now increased, reverberating from the walls of rock; the mist came cool and wet against his face, and, hurried and startled, Don stood upon the wet, rocky shelf, holding on tightly, till Ngati laid his hand upon his shoulder, passed round him, and then, signing to him to follow, went on. Don's first thought was of Jem, and looking behind him, there was his companion close to where he stood. Jem nodded to him to go on, just as a faint shout arose from somewhere above; and this seemed to nerve him to proceed over the slippery stones to where Ngati was passing round a corner, holding tightly by the rock, which he seemed to embrace. The way was dangerous in the extreme--a narrow ledge of the most rugged kind with a perpendicular moss-covered wall on the right, and on the left, space, with far below the foaming torrent, a glance at which seemed to produce vertigo. To stand still seemed to be worse than going on, and taking it to his comfort that what one man could do another might, Don reached the corner, but hesitated again, for there seemed to be no foot-hold whatever. But as he hesitated a great brown hand came round, ready to grasp his firmly; and with this help he made the venture, pressing himself close against the rock and creeping on. He was just in the most perilous part, well out over the torrent, when his left foot slipped, and a horrible chill ran through him, as he felt that he was falling into the chasm
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estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant.<|quote|>"That's the chimney roaring."</|quote|>"It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the
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Don Lavington
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said Dr Messinger.
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No speaker
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"We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks
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rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we
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* * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half
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no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over
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hidden country. "Pie-wie peoples there," she said. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "Now listen, Rosa. You are sensible, civilized woman. You lived two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men
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lit from below by the storm lantern that stood on a box between them; the shadow of her high cheekbones hid her eyes; lank, ragged hair, a tenuous straggle of tattooing along the forehead and lip, rotund body in its filthy cotton gown, bandy brown legs. "Understand?" But still she said nothing; she seemed to be looking over their heads into the dark forest, but her eyes were lost in shadow. "Listen, Rosa, all women and four men stay here in camp. Eight men come in boats to Pie-wie village. You come with boats. When we reach Pie-wie village, you and eight men and boats go back to camp to other women and men. Then back to Macushi country. Understand?" At last Rosa spoke. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "I am not asking you to go _with_ Pie-wie people. You and the men take us as far as Pie-wies, then you go back to Macushi people. Understand?" Rosa raised her arm in an embracing circle which covered the camp and the road they had travelled and the broad savannahs behind them. "Macushi peoples there," she said. Then she raised the other arm and waved it downstream towards the hidden country. "Pie-wie peoples there," she said. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "Now listen, Rosa. You are sensible, civilized woman. You lived two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside. "They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them." They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is
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trunk and lifted the skin clear. It curled up again at once, making a hollow cylinder, which the men carried down to the waterside and set afloat, fastening it to a tree with a loop of vine-rope. When all the woodskins were ready it was an easy matter to make canoes of them. Four men held them open while two others fixed the struts. The ends were left open, and curled up slightly so as to lift them clear (when the craft was fully laden it drew only an inch or two of water). Then the men set about fashioning some single-bladed paddles; that, too, was an easy matter. Every day Dr Messinger asked Rosa, "When will the boats be ready? Ask the men." And she replied, "Just now." "How many days--four?--five?--how many?" "No, not many. Boats finish just now." At last when it was clear that the work was nearly complete, Dr Messinger busied himself with arrangements. He sorted out the stores, dividing the necessary freight into two groups; he and Tony were to sit in separate boats and each had with him a rifle and ammunition, a camera, tinned rations, trade goods and his own luggage. The third canoe, which would be manned solely by Indians, was to hold the flour and rice, sugar and farine and the rations for the men. The canoes would not hold all the stores and an "emergency dump" was made a little way up the bank. "We shall take eight men with us. Four can stay behind with the women to guard the camp. Once we are among the Pie-wies, everything will be easy. These Macushis can go home then. I don't think they will rob the stores. There is nothing here that would be much use to them." "Hadn't we better keep Rosa with us to act as interpreter with the Macushis?" "Yes, perhaps we had. I will tell her." That evening everything was finished except the paddles. In the first exhilarating hour of darkness, when Tony and Dr Messinger were able to discard the gloves and veils that had been irking them all day, they called Rosa across to the part of the camp where they ate and slept. "Rosa, we have decided to take you down the river with us. We need you to help us talk to the men. Understand?" Rosa said nothing; her face was perfectly blank, lit from below by the storm lantern that stood on a box between them; the shadow of her high cheekbones hid her eyes; lank, ragged hair, a tenuous straggle of tattooing along the forehead and lip, rotund body in its filthy cotton gown, bandy brown legs. "Understand?" But still she said nothing; she seemed to be looking over their heads into the dark forest, but her eyes were lost in shadow. "Listen, Rosa, all women and four men stay here in camp. Eight men come in boats to Pie-wie village. You come with boats. When we reach Pie-wie village, you and eight men and boats go back to camp to other women and men. Then back to Macushi country. Understand?" At last Rosa spoke. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "I am not asking you to go _with_ Pie-wie people. You and the men take us as far as Pie-wies, then you go back to Macushi people. Understand?" Rosa raised her arm in an embracing circle which covered the camp and the road they had travelled and the broad savannahs behind them. "Macushi peoples there," she said. Then she raised the other arm and waved it downstream towards the hidden country. "Pie-wie peoples there," she said. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "Now listen, Rosa. You are sensible, civilized woman. You lived two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside. "They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them." They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this," she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood
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peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "I am not asking you to go _with_ Pie-wie people. You and the men take us as far as Pie-wies, then you go back to Macushi people. Understand?" Rosa raised her arm in an embracing circle which covered the camp and the road they had travelled and the broad savannahs behind them. "Macushi peoples there," she said. Then she raised the other arm and waved it downstream towards the hidden country. "Pie-wie peoples there," she said. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "Now listen, Rosa. You are sensible, civilized woman. You lived two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores,"<|quote|>said Dr Messinger.</|quote|>"There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside. "They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them." They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr
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A Handful Of Dust
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"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."
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Mrs. Herriton
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how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old
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Life," said Philip. "Poor child, how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling apparition
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Aunt Harriet, and she ll show you the map." "Righto!" said the little girl, and dragged the reluctant Harriet into the library. Mrs. Herriton and her son were left alone. There was immediately confidence between them. "Here beginneth the New Life," said Philip. "Poor child, how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling apparition was that! I did think the lady was bedridden as well as imbecile. Why ever did she come?" "Mr. Kingcroft made her. I am certain of it. He wanted to see Lilia again, and this was the only way." "I
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not Granny," said Mrs. Herriton, giving her a kiss. "And we say a boat or a steamer, not a ship. Ships have sails. And mother won t go all the way by sea. You look at the map of Europe, and you ll see why. Harriet, take her. Go with Aunt Harriet, and she ll show you the map." "Righto!" said the little girl, and dragged the reluctant Harriet into the library. Mrs. Herriton and her son were left alone. There was immediately confidence between them. "Here beginneth the New Life," said Philip. "Poor child, how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling apparition was that! I did think the lady was bedridden as well as imbecile. Why ever did she come?" "Mr. Kingcroft made her. I am certain of it. He wanted to see Lilia again, and this was the only way." "I hope he is satisfied. I did not think my sister-in-law distinguished herself in her farewells." Mrs. Herriton shuddered. "I mind nothing, so long as she has gone--and gone with Miss Abbott. It is mortifying to think that a widow of thirty-three requires a girl ten years younger to look after
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him to take Mrs. Theobald all the way back. Sawston, her own home, was within easy reach of London, and they were not late for tea. Tea was in the dining-room, with an egg for Irma, to keep up the child s spirits. The house seemed strangely quiet after a fortnight s bustle, and their conversation was spasmodic and subdued. They wondered whether the travellers had got to Folkestone, whether it would be at all rough, and if so what would happen to poor Miss Abbott. "And, Granny, when will the old ship get to Italy?" asked Irma. "Grandmother, dear; not Granny," said Mrs. Herriton, giving her a kiss. "And we say a boat or a steamer, not a ship. Ships have sails. And mother won t go all the way by sea. You look at the map of Europe, and you ll see why. Harriet, take her. Go with Aunt Harriet, and she ll show you the map." "Righto!" said the little girl, and dragged the reluctant Harriet into the library. Mrs. Herriton and her son were left alone. There was immediately confidence between them. "Here beginneth the New Life," said Philip. "Poor child, how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling apparition was that! I did think the lady was bedridden as well as imbecile. Why ever did she come?" "Mr. Kingcroft made her. I am certain of it. He wanted to see Lilia again, and this was the only way." "I hope he is satisfied. I did not think my sister-in-law distinguished herself in her farewells." Mrs. Herriton shuddered. "I mind nothing, so long as she has gone--and gone with Miss Abbott. It is mortifying to think that a widow of thirty-three requires a girl ten years younger to look after her." "I pity Miss Abbott. Fortunately one admirer is chained to England. Mr. Kingcroft cannot leave the crops or the climate or something. I don t think, either, he improved his chances today. He, as well as Lilia, has the knack of being absurd in public." Mrs. Herriton replied, "When a man is neither well bred, nor well connected, nor handsome, nor clever, nor rich, even Lilia may discard him in time." "No. I believe she would take any one. Right up to the last, when her boxes were packed, she was playing the chinless curate. Both the curates are
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all moved with it a couple of steps, and waved their handkerchiefs, and uttered cheerful little cries. At that moment Mr. Kingcroft reappeared, carrying a footwarmer by both ends, as if it was a tea-tray. He was sorry that he was too late, and called out in a quivering voice, "Good-bye, Mrs. Charles. May you enjoy yourself, and may God bless you." Lilia smiled and nodded, and then the absurd position of the foot-warmer overcame her, and she began to laugh again. "Oh, I am so sorry," she cried back, "but you do look so funny. Oh, you all look so funny waving! Oh, pray!" And laughing helplessly, she was carried out into the fog. "High spirits to begin so long a journey," said Mrs. Theobald, dabbing her eyes. Mr. Kingcroft solemnly moved his head in token of agreement. "I wish," said he, "that Mrs. Charles had gotten the footwarmer. These London porters won t take heed to a country chap." "But you did your best," said Mrs. Herriton. "And I think it simply noble of you to have brought Mrs. Theobald all the way here on such a day as this." Then, rather hastily, she shook hands, and left him to take Mrs. Theobald all the way back. Sawston, her own home, was within easy reach of London, and they were not late for tea. Tea was in the dining-room, with an egg for Irma, to keep up the child s spirits. The house seemed strangely quiet after a fortnight s bustle, and their conversation was spasmodic and subdued. They wondered whether the travellers had got to Folkestone, whether it would be at all rough, and if so what would happen to poor Miss Abbott. "And, Granny, when will the old ship get to Italy?" asked Irma. "Grandmother, dear; not Granny," said Mrs. Herriton, giving her a kiss. "And we say a boat or a steamer, not a ship. Ships have sails. And mother won t go all the way by sea. You look at the map of Europe, and you ll see why. Harriet, take her. Go with Aunt Harriet, and she ll show you the map." "Righto!" said the little girl, and dragged the reluctant Harriet into the library. Mrs. Herriton and her son were left alone. There was immediately confidence between them. "Here beginneth the New Life," said Philip. "Poor child, how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling apparition was that! I did think the lady was bedridden as well as imbecile. Why ever did she come?" "Mr. Kingcroft made her. I am certain of it. He wanted to see Lilia again, and this was the only way." "I hope he is satisfied. I did not think my sister-in-law distinguished herself in her farewells." Mrs. Herriton shuddered. "I mind nothing, so long as she has gone--and gone with Miss Abbott. It is mortifying to think that a widow of thirty-three requires a girl ten years younger to look after her." "I pity Miss Abbott. Fortunately one admirer is chained to England. Mr. Kingcroft cannot leave the crops or the climate or something. I don t think, either, he improved his chances today. He, as well as Lilia, has the knack of being absurd in public." Mrs. Herriton replied, "When a man is neither well bred, nor well connected, nor handsome, nor clever, nor rich, even Lilia may discard him in time." "No. I believe she would take any one. Right up to the last, when her boxes were packed, she was playing the chinless curate. Both the curates are chinless, but hers had the dampest hands. I came on them in the Park. They were speaking of the Pentateuch." "My dear boy! If possible, she has got worse and worse. It was your idea of Italian travel that saved us!" Philip brightened at the little compliment. "The odd part is that she was quite eager--always asking me for information; and of course I was very glad to give it. I admit she is a Philistine, appallingly ignorant, and her taste in art is false. Still, to have any taste at all is something. And I do believe that Italy really purifies and ennobles all who visit her. She is the school as well as the playground of the world. It is really to Lilia s credit that she wants to go there." "She would go anywhere," said his mother, who had heard enough of the praises of Italy. "I and Caroline Abbott had the greatest difficulty in dissuading her from the Riviera." "No, Mother; no. She was really keen on Italy. This travel is quite a crisis for her." He found the situation full of whimsical romance: there was something half attractive, half repellent in the thought of this
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people are more marvellous than the land." "How I wish you were coming, Philip," she said, flattered at the unwonted notice her brother-in-law was giving her. "I wish I were." He could have managed it without great difficulty, for his career at the Bar was not so intense as to prevent occasional holidays. But his family disliked his continual visits to the Continent, and he himself often found pleasure in the idea that he was too busy to leave town. "Good-bye, dear every one. What a whirl!" She caught sight of her little daughter Irma, and felt that a touch of maternal solemnity was required. "Good-bye, darling. Mind you re always good, and do what Granny tells you." She referred not to her own mother, but to her mother-in-law, Mrs. Herriton, who hated the title of Granny. Irma lifted a serious face to be kissed, and said cautiously, "I ll do my best." "She is sure to be good," said Mrs. Herriton, who was standing pensively a little out of the hubbub. But Lilia was already calling to Miss Abbott, a tall, grave, rather nice-looking young lady who was conducting her adieus in a more decorous manner on the platform. "Caroline, my Caroline! Jump in, or your chaperon will go off without you." And Philip, whom the idea of Italy always intoxicated, had started again, telling her of the supreme moments of her coming journey--the Campanile of Airolo, which would burst on her when she emerged from the St. Gothard tunnel, presaging the future; the view of the Ticino and Lago Maggiore as the train climbed the slopes of Monte Cenere; the view of Lugano, the view of Como--Italy gathering thick around her now--the arrival at her first resting-place, when, after long driving through dark and dirty streets, she should at last behold, amid the roar of trams and the glare of arc lamps, the buttresses of the cathedral of Milan. "Handkerchiefs and collars," screamed Harriet, "in my inlaid box! I ve lent you my inlaid box." "Good old Harry!" She kissed every one again, and there was a moment s silence. They all smiled steadily, excepting Philip, who was choking in the fog, and old Mrs. Theobald, who had begun to cry. Miss Abbott got into the carriage. The guard himself shut the door, and told Lilia that she would be all right. Then the train moved, and they all moved with it a couple of steps, and waved their handkerchiefs, and uttered cheerful little cries. At that moment Mr. Kingcroft reappeared, carrying a footwarmer by both ends, as if it was a tea-tray. He was sorry that he was too late, and called out in a quivering voice, "Good-bye, Mrs. Charles. May you enjoy yourself, and may God bless you." Lilia smiled and nodded, and then the absurd position of the foot-warmer overcame her, and she began to laugh again. "Oh, I am so sorry," she cried back, "but you do look so funny. Oh, you all look so funny waving! Oh, pray!" And laughing helplessly, she was carried out into the fog. "High spirits to begin so long a journey," said Mrs. Theobald, dabbing her eyes. Mr. Kingcroft solemnly moved his head in token of agreement. "I wish," said he, "that Mrs. Charles had gotten the footwarmer. These London porters won t take heed to a country chap." "But you did your best," said Mrs. Herriton. "And I think it simply noble of you to have brought Mrs. Theobald all the way here on such a day as this." Then, rather hastily, she shook hands, and left him to take Mrs. Theobald all the way back. Sawston, her own home, was within easy reach of London, and they were not late for tea. Tea was in the dining-room, with an egg for Irma, to keep up the child s spirits. The house seemed strangely quiet after a fortnight s bustle, and their conversation was spasmodic and subdued. They wondered whether the travellers had got to Folkestone, whether it would be at all rough, and if so what would happen to poor Miss Abbott. "And, Granny, when will the old ship get to Italy?" asked Irma. "Grandmother, dear; not Granny," said Mrs. Herriton, giving her a kiss. "And we say a boat or a steamer, not a ship. Ships have sails. And mother won t go all the way by sea. You look at the map of Europe, and you ll see why. Harriet, take her. Go with Aunt Harriet, and she ll show you the map." "Righto!" said the little girl, and dragged the reluctant Harriet into the library. Mrs. Herriton and her son were left alone. There was immediately confidence between them. "Here beginneth the New Life," said Philip. "Poor child, how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling apparition was that! I did think the lady was bedridden as well as imbecile. Why ever did she come?" "Mr. Kingcroft made her. I am certain of it. He wanted to see Lilia again, and this was the only way." "I hope he is satisfied. I did not think my sister-in-law distinguished herself in her farewells." Mrs. Herriton shuddered. "I mind nothing, so long as she has gone--and gone with Miss Abbott. It is mortifying to think that a widow of thirty-three requires a girl ten years younger to look after her." "I pity Miss Abbott. Fortunately one admirer is chained to England. Mr. Kingcroft cannot leave the crops or the climate or something. I don t think, either, he improved his chances today. He, as well as Lilia, has the knack of being absurd in public." Mrs. Herriton replied, "When a man is neither well bred, nor well connected, nor handsome, nor clever, nor rich, even Lilia may discard him in time." "No. I believe she would take any one. Right up to the last, when her boxes were packed, she was playing the chinless curate. Both the curates are chinless, but hers had the dampest hands. I came on them in the Park. They were speaking of the Pentateuch." "My dear boy! If possible, she has got worse and worse. It was your idea of Italian travel that saved us!" Philip brightened at the little compliment. "The odd part is that she was quite eager--always asking me for information; and of course I was very glad to give it. I admit she is a Philistine, appallingly ignorant, and her taste in art is false. Still, to have any taste at all is something. And I do believe that Italy really purifies and ennobles all who visit her. She is the school as well as the playground of the world. It is really to Lilia s credit that she wants to go there." "She would go anywhere," said his mother, who had heard enough of the praises of Italy. "I and Caroline Abbott had the greatest difficulty in dissuading her from the Riviera." "No, Mother; no. She was really keen on Italy. This travel is quite a crisis for her." He found the situation full of whimsical romance: there was something half attractive, half repellent in the thought of this vulgar woman journeying to places he loved and revered. Why should she not be transfigured? The same had happened to the Goths. Mrs. Herriton did not believe in romance nor in transfiguration, nor in parallels from history, nor in anything else that may disturb domestic life. She adroitly changed the subject before Philip got excited. Soon Harriet returned, having given her lesson in geography. Irma went to bed early, and was tucked up by her grandmother. Then the two ladies worked and played cards. Philip read a book. And so they all settled down to their quiet, profitable existence, and continued it without interruption through the winter. It was now nearly ten years since Charles had fallen in love with Lilia Theobald because she was pretty, and during that time Mrs. Herriton had hardly known a moment s rest. For six months she schemed to prevent the match, and when it had taken place she turned to another task--the supervision of her daughter-in-law. Lilia must be pushed through life without bringing discredit on the family into which she had married. She was aided by Charles, by her daughter Harriet, and, as soon as he was old enough, by the clever one of the family, Philip. The birth of Irma made things still more difficult. But fortunately old Mrs. Theobald, who had attempted interference, began to break up. It was an effort to her to leave Whitby, and Mrs. Herriton discouraged the effort as far as possible. That curious duel which is fought over every baby was fought and decided early. Irma belonged to her father s family, not to her mother s. Charles died, and the struggle recommenced. Lilia tried to assert herself, and said that she should go to take care of Mrs. Theobald. It required all Mrs. Herriton s kindness to prevent her. A house was finally taken for her at Sawston, and there for three years she lived with Irma, continually subject to the refining influences of her late husband s family. During one of her rare Yorkshire visits trouble began again. Lilia confided to a friend that she liked a Mr. Kingcroft extremely, but that she was not exactly engaged to him. The news came round to Mrs. Herriton, who at once wrote, begging for information, and pointing out that Lilia must either be engaged or not, since no intermediate state existed. It was a good
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here on such a day as this." Then, rather hastily, she shook hands, and left him to take Mrs. Theobald all the way back. Sawston, her own home, was within easy reach of London, and they were not late for tea. Tea was in the dining-room, with an egg for Irma, to keep up the child s spirits. The house seemed strangely quiet after a fortnight s bustle, and their conversation was spasmodic and subdued. They wondered whether the travellers had got to Folkestone, whether it would be at all rough, and if so what would happen to poor Miss Abbott. "And, Granny, when will the old ship get to Italy?" asked Irma. "Grandmother, dear; not Granny," said Mrs. Herriton, giving her a kiss. "And we say a boat or a steamer, not a ship. Ships have sails. And mother won t go all the way by sea. You look at the map of Europe, and you ll see why. Harriet, take her. Go with Aunt Harriet, and she ll show you the map." "Righto!" said the little girl, and dragged the reluctant Harriet into the library. Mrs. Herriton and her son were left alone. There was immediately confidence between them. "Here beginneth the New Life," said Philip. "Poor child, how vulgar!" murmured Mrs. Herriton.<|quote|>"It s surprising that she isn t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her."</|quote|>"And--alas, alas!--a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling apparition was that! I did think the lady was bedridden as well as imbecile. Why ever did she come?" "Mr. Kingcroft made her. I am certain of it. He wanted to see Lilia again, and this was the only way." "I hope he is satisfied. I did not think my sister-in-law distinguished herself in her farewells." Mrs. Herriton shuddered. "I mind nothing, so long as she has gone--and gone with Miss Abbott. It is mortifying to think that a widow of thirty-three requires a girl ten years younger to look after her." "I pity Miss Abbott. Fortunately one admirer is chained to England. Mr. Kingcroft cannot leave the crops or the climate or something. I don t think, either, he improved his chances today. He, as well as Lilia, has the knack of being absurd in public." Mrs. Herriton replied, "When a man is neither well bred, nor well connected, nor handsome, nor clever, nor rich, even Lilia may discard him in time." "No. I believe she would take any one. Right up to the last, when her boxes were packed, she was playing the chinless curate. Both the curates are chinless, but hers had the dampest hands. I came on them in the Park. They were speaking of the Pentateuch." "My dear boy! If possible, she has got worse and worse. It was your idea of Italian travel that saved us!" Philip brightened at the little compliment. "The odd part is that she was quite eager--always asking me for information; and of course I was very glad to give it. I admit she is a Philistine, appallingly ignorant, and her taste in art is false. Still, to have any taste at all is something. And I do believe that Italy really purifies and ennobles all who visit her. She is the school as well as the playground of the world. It is really to Lilia s credit that she wants to go there." "She would go anywhere," said his mother, who had heard enough of the praises of Italy. "I and Caroline Abbott had the greatest difficulty in dissuading her from the Riviera." "No, Mother; no. She was really keen on Italy. This travel is quite a crisis for her." He found the situation full of whimsical romance: there was something half attractive, half repellent in the thought of this vulgar woman journeying to places he loved and revered. Why should she not be transfigured? The same had happened to the Goths. Mrs. Herriton did not believe in romance nor in transfiguration, nor in parallels from history, nor in anything else that may disturb domestic life. She adroitly changed the subject before Philip got excited. Soon Harriet returned, having given her lesson in geography. Irma went to bed early, and was tucked up by
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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