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said Eeyore.
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them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but
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them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only
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The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at
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got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped
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So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it
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and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and
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end of the story, and I am very tired after that last sentence, I think I shall stop there. CHAPTER X IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN GIVES POOH A PARTY, AND WE SAY GOOD-BYE One day when the sun had come back over the Forest, bringing with it the scent of may, and all the streams of the Forest were tinkling happily to find themselves their own pretty shape again, and the little pools lay dreaming of the life they had seen and the big things they had done, and in the warmth and quiet of the Forest the cuckoo was trying over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Christopher Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the Hundred Acre Wood to see what was wanted. "Owl," said Christopher Robin, "I am going to give a party." "You are, are you?" said Owl. "And it's to be a special sort of party, because it's because of what Pooh did when he did what he did to save Piglet from the flood." "Oh, that's what it's for, is it?" said Owl. "Yes, so will you tell Pooh as quickly as you can, and all the others, because it will be to-morrow." "Oh, it will, will it?" said Owl, still being as helpful as possible. "So will you go and tell them, Owl?" Owl tried to think of something very wise to say, but couldn't, so he flew off to tell the others. And the first person he told was Pooh. "Pooh," he said, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Oh!" said Pooh. And then seeing that Owl expected him to say something else, he said "Will there be those little cake things with pink sugar icing?" Owl felt that it was rather beneath him to talk about little cake things with pink sugar icing, so he told Pooh exactly what Christopher Robin had said, and flew off to Eeyore. "A party for Me?" thought Pooh to himself. "How grand!" And he began to wonder if all the other animals would know that it was a special Pooh Party, and if Christopher Robin had told them about _The Floating Bear_ and the _Brain of Pooh_ and all the wonderful ships he had invented and sailed on, and he began to think how awful it would be if everybody had forgotten about it, and nobody quite knew what the party was for; and the more he thought like this, the more the party got muddled in his mind, like a dream when nothing goes right. And the dream began to sing itself over in his head until it became a sort of song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now" "--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper, "Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh was opening it as quickly as ever he could, but without cutting the string, because you never know when a bit of string might be Useful. At last it was undone. When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in
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song. It was an ANXIOUS POOH SONG. 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For Who?_) For Pooh-- (_Why what did he do?_) I thought you knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!"<|quote|>said Eeyore.</|quote|>"A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is
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Winnie The Pooh
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she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,
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No speaker
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like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV
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“Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV ON the afternoon of that
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to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they behaved. While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of
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the new words over and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite sternly. I did n’t want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they behaved. While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after working hours. All the years that have passed have not
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knees and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook her head, then to mine and to the sky, nodding violently. “Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue sky.” She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky, blue eyes,” as if it amused her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind she learned a score of words. She was quick, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of us. It was wonderfully pleasant. After Ántonia had said the new words over and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite sternly. I did n’t want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they behaved. While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after working hours. All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the
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hat on, and the girls’ skirts were blown out before them. Ántonia seemed to like it; she held her little sister by the hand and chattered away in that language which seemed to me spoken so much more rapidly than mine. She looked at me, her eyes fairly blazing with things she could not say. “Name? What name?” she asked, touching me on the shoulder. I told her my name, and she repeated it after me and made Yulka say it. She pointed into the gold cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, “What name?” We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass. Yulka curled up like a baby rabbit and played with a grasshopper. Ántonia pointed up to the sky and questioned me with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not satisfied and pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, making it sound like “ice.” She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that she distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on her knees and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook her head, then to mine and to the sky, nodding violently. “Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue sky.” She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky, blue eyes,” as if it amused her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind she learned a score of words. She was quick, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of us. It was wonderfully pleasant. After Ántonia had said the new words over and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite sternly. I did n’t want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they behaved. While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after working hours. All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Jake’s story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom. I used to love to drift along the pale yellow cornfields, looking for the damp spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon turned a rich copper color and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like cocoons about the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to visit our German neighbors and to admire their catalpa grove, or to see the big elm tree that grew up out of a deep crack in the earth and had a hawk’s nest in its branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity of
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boy. As he approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands to show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a duck’s foot. When he saw me draw back, he began to crow delightedly, “Hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!” like a rooster. His mother scowled and said sternly, “Marek!” then spoke rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian. “She wants me to tell you he won’t hurt nobody, Mrs. Burden. He was born like that. The others are smart. Ambrosch, he make good farmer.” He struck Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly. At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank. He wore no hat, and his thick, iron-gray hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. It was so long that it bushed out behind his ears, and made him look like the old portraits I remembered in Virginia. He was tall and slender, and his thin shoulders stooped. He looked at us understandingly, then took grandmother’s hand and bent over it. I noticed how white and well-shaped his own hands were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. His eyes were melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face was ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes—like something from which all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old man was in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed. Under his coat he wore a knitted gray vest, and, instead of a collar, a silk scarf of a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held together by a red coral pin. While Krajiek was translating for Mr. Shimerda, Ántonia came up to me and held out her hand coaxingly. In a moment we were running up the steep drawside together, Yulka trotting after us. When we reached the level and could see the gold tree-tops, I pointed toward them, and Ántonia laughed and squeezed my hand as if to tell me how glad she was I had come. We raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop until the ground itself stopped—fell away before us so abruptly that the next step would have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the edge of the ravine, looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below us. The wind was so strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the girls’ skirts were blown out before them. Ántonia seemed to like it; she held her little sister by the hand and chattered away in that language which seemed to me spoken so much more rapidly than mine. She looked at me, her eyes fairly blazing with things she could not say. “Name? What name?” she asked, touching me on the shoulder. I told her my name, and she repeated it after me and made Yulka say it. She pointed into the gold cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, “What name?” We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass. Yulka curled up like a baby rabbit and played with a grasshopper. Ántonia pointed up to the sky and questioned me with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not satisfied and pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, making it sound like “ice.” She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that she distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on her knees and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook her head, then to mine and to the sky, nodding violently. “Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue sky.” She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky, blue eyes,” as if it amused her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind she learned a score of words. She was quick, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of us. It was wonderfully pleasant. After Ántonia had said the new words over and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite sternly. I did n’t want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they behaved. While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after working hours. All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Jake’s story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom. I used to love to drift along the pale yellow cornfields, looking for the damp spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon turned a rich copper color and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like cocoons about the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to visit our German neighbors and to admire their catalpa grove, or to see the big elm tree that grew up out of a deep crack in the earth and had a hawk’s nest in its branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious. Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to watch the brown, earth-owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests underground with the dogs. Ántonia Shimerda liked to go with me, and we used to wonder a great deal about these birds of subterranean habit. We had to be on our guard there, for rattlesnakes were always lurking about. They came to pick up an easy living among the dogs and owls, which were quite defenseless against them; took possession of their comfortable houses and ate the eggs and puppies. We felt sorry for the owls. It was always mournful to see them come flying home at sunset and disappear under the earth. But, after all, we felt, winged things who would live like that must be rather degraded creatures. The dog-town was a long way from any pond or creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen populous dog-towns in the desert where there was no surface water for fifty miles; he insisted that some of the holes must go down to water—nearly two hundred feet, hereabouts. Ántonia said she did n’t believe it; that the dogs probably lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits. Ántonia had opinions about everything, and she was soon able to make them known. Almost every day she came running across the prairie to have her reading lesson with me. Mrs. Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was important that one member of the family should learn English. When the lesson was over, we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the garden. I split the melons with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the hearts and ate them with the juice trickling through our fingers. The white Christmas melons we did not touch, but we watched them with curiosity. They were to be picked late, when the hard frosts had set in, and put away for winter use. After weeks on the ocean, the Shimerdas were famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for miles along the edge of the cornfields, hunting for ground-cherries. Ántonia loved to help grandmother in the kitchen and to learn about cooking and housekeeping. She would stand beside her, watching her every movement. We were willing to believe that Mrs. Shimerda was a good housewife in
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my hand as if to tell me how glad she was I had come. We raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop until the ground itself stopped—fell away before us so abruptly that the next step would have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the edge of the ravine, looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below us. The wind was so strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the girls’ skirts were blown out before them. Ántonia seemed to like it; she held her little sister by the hand and chattered away in that language which seemed to me spoken so much more rapidly than mine. She looked at me, her eyes fairly blazing with things she could not say. “Name? What name?” she asked, touching me on the shoulder. I told her my name, and she repeated it after me and made Yulka say it. She pointed into the gold cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, “What name?” We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass. Yulka curled up like a baby rabbit and played with a grasshopper. Ántonia pointed up to the sky and questioned me with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not satisfied and pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, making it sound like “ice.” She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that she distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on her knees and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook her head, then to mine and to the sky, nodding violently. “Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue sky.” She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky, blue eyes,” as if it amused her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind she learned a score of words. She was quick, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of us. It was wonderfully pleasant. After Ántonia had said the new words over and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite sternly. I did n’t want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they behaved. While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!”<|quote|>she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted by my elders. We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,</|quote|>“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” IV ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after working hours. All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Jake’s story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom. I used to love to drift along the pale yellow cornfields, looking for the damp spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon turned a rich copper color and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like cocoons about the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to visit our German
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My Antonia
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Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.
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No speaker
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you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold
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I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That
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grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared,
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was watching the scene. "I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards
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There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that." She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene. "I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook
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He rang the bell. "I ll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can t have my girl looking as old as her husband." "All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby. Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don t suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. "Margaret s point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad." Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble." "I m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days." "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that." She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene. "I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education
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minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else explained. And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and she saw it for what it really is--a caricature of infinity. The familiar barriers, the streets along which she moved, the houses between which she had made her little journeys for so many years, became negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs of mud. She had accomplished a hideous act of renunciation and returned to the One. Margaret s own faith held firm. She knew the human soul will be merged, if it be merged at all, with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going amiss for many years. It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on a London afternoon, while rain fell slowly. Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He might know of some paths in the chaos that were hidden from them, and she determined to take Tibby s advice and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call at his office. He could not well make it worse. She went for a few moments into St. Paul s, whose dome stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the gospel of form. But within, St. Paul s is as its surroundings--echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, invisible mosaics, wet footmarks, crossing and recrossing the floor. Si monumentum requiris, circumspice; it points us back to London. There was no hope of Helen here. Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had expected. He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance. "That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?" "Don t ask me. I m a plain man of business. I live and let live. My advice to you both is, don t worry. Margaret, you ve got black marks again under your eyes. You know that s strictly forbidden. First your aunt--then your sister. No, we aren t going to have it. Are we, Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I ll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can t have my girl looking as old as her husband." "All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby. Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don t suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. "Margaret s point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad." Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble." "I m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days." "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that." She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene. "I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess." "Who s we ?" asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband s dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden. After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can t have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret s too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her." Charles made no answer. "Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?" "No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon." "How?" "Don t ask me." CHAPTER XXXV One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery,
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as old as her husband." "All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby. Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don t suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. "Margaret s point is this," he said. "Our sister may be mad." Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. "Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you help us at all? We are again in trouble." "I m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you know, in these days." "The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that." She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene. "I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean."<|quote|>Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.</|quote|>"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t
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Howards End
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Bill said.
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No speaker
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Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He
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dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too."
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"It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell
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you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?"
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of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought
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all the unloadings." "What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw. "It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down." "Do they ever gore the steers?" "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them." "Can't the steers do anything?" "No. They're trying to make friends." "What do they have them in for?" "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking horns against the stone walls, or goring each other." "Must be swell being a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the Caf Iru a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "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
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to Juanito Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of bull-fighters Montoya had really believed in were framed. Photographs of bull-fighters who had been without aficion Montoya kept in a drawer of his desk. They often had the most flattering inscriptions. But they did not mean anything. One day Montoya took them all out and dropped them in the waste-basket. He did not want them around. We often talked about bulls and bull-fighters. I had stopped at the Montoya for several years. We never talked for very long at a time. It was simply the pleasure of discovering what we each felt. Men would come in from distant towns and before they left Pamplona stop and talk for a few minutes with Montoya about bulls. These men were aficionados. Those who were aficionados could always get rooms even when the hotel was full. Montoya introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite at first, and it amused them very much that I should be an American. Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with excitement, but he could not really have it. When they saw that I had aficion, and there was no password, no set questions that could bring it out, rather it was a sort of oral spiritual examination with the questions always a little on the defensive and never apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a "Buen hombre." But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain. Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull-fighting. Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room. "Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?" "He was telling me about the bulls coming in to-night." "Let's find the gang and go down." "All right. They'll probably be at the caf ." "Have you got tickets?" "Yes. I got them for all the unloadings." "What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw. "It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down." "Do they ever gore the steers?" "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them." "Can't the steers do anything?" "No. They're trying to make friends." "What do they have them in for?" "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking horns against the stone walls, or goring each other." "Must be swell being a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the Caf Iru a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "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
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always a little on the defensive and never apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a "Buen hombre." But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain. Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull-fighting. Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room. "Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?" "He was telling me about the bulls coming in to-night." "Let's find the gang and go down." "All right. They'll probably be at the caf ." "Have you got tickets?" "Yes. I got them for all the unloadings." "What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw. "It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down." "Do they ever gore the steers?" "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them." "Can't the steers do anything?" "No. They're trying to make friends." "What do they have them in for?" "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking horns against the stone walls, or goring each other." "Must be swell being a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the Caf Iru a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I
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The Sun Also Rises
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she burst out,
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No speaker
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the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My
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and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish,
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Inglethorp, and she's off." "Evie? Off?" John nodded gloomily. "Yes; you see she went to the mater, and Oh, here's Evie herself." Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back,
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we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us. "Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off." "Evie? Off?" John nodded gloomily. "Yes; you see she went to the mater, and Oh, here's Evie herself." Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:" You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has
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Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face. Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs. The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish. The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit. I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five. As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us. "Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off." "Evie? Off?" John nodded gloomily. "Yes; you see she went to the mater, and Oh, here's Evie herself." Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:" You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' "She was very angry. Natural! I went on," I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'" "What did she say?" Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace. " Darling Alfred' dearest Alfred' wicked calumnies' wicked lies' wicked woman' "to accuse her" dear husband!' "The
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the late Lord Abbotsbury's daughter does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted here every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks." I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park. John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was John's younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face. Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs. The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish. The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit. I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five. As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us. "Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off." "Evie? Off?" John nodded gloomily. "Yes; you see she went to the mater, and Oh, here's Evie herself." Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:" You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' "She was very angry. Natural! I went on," I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'" "What did she say?" Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace. " Darling Alfred' dearest Alfred' wicked calumnies' wicked lies' wicked woman' "to accuse her" dear husband!' "The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off." "But not now?" "This minute!" For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it. As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me eagerly. "Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?" I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper. "Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her." "Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought." She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to
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pack of lawyers. But I'm certain I'd know. I'd feel it in my fingertips if he came near me." "It might be a she'," I suggested. "Might. But murder's a violent crime. Associate it more with a man." "Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice startled me. "Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected." "Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!" cried Mrs. Inglethorp. "It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there's Cynthia!" A young girl in V.A.D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn. "Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings Miss Murdoch." Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off her little V.A.D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty. She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me. "Sit down here on the grass, do. It's ever so much nicer." I dropped down obediently. "You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss Murdoch?" She nodded. "For my sins." "Do they bully you, then?" I asked, smiling. "I should like to see them!" cried Cynthia with dignity. "I have got a cousin who is nursing," I remarked. "And she is terrified of Sisters'." "I don't wonder. Sisters _are_, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp-ly _are_! You've no idea! But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary." "How many people do you poison?" I asked, smiling. Cynthia smiled too. "Oh, hundreds!" she said. "Cynthia," called Mrs. Inglethorp, "do you think you could write a few notes for me?" "Certainly, Aunt Emily." She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it. My hostess turned to me. "John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member's wife she was the late Lord Abbotsbury's daughter does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted here every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks." I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park. John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was John's younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face. Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs. The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish. The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit. I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five. As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us. "Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off." "Evie? Off?" John nodded gloomily. "Yes; you see she went to the mater, and Oh, here's Evie herself." Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:" You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' "She was very angry. Natural! I went on," I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'" "What did she say?" Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace. " Darling Alfred' dearest Alfred' wicked calumnies' wicked lies' wicked woman' "to accuse her" dear husband!' "The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off." "But not now?" "This minute!" For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it. As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me eagerly. "Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?" I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper. "Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her." "Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought." She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean." The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me. "Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil her husband!" There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear. As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly. "And who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am
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They simp-ly _are_! You've no idea! But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary." "How many people do you poison?" I asked, smiling. Cynthia smiled too. "Oh, hundreds!" she said. "Cynthia," called Mrs. Inglethorp, "do you think you could write a few notes for me?" "Certainly, Aunt Emily." She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it. My hostess turned to me. "John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member's wife she was the late Lord Abbotsbury's daughter does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted here every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks." I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park. John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was John's younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face. Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs. The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish. The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit. I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five. As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us. "Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off." "Evie? Off?" John nodded gloomily. "Yes; you see she went to the mater, and Oh, here's Evie herself." Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive. "At any rate,"<|quote|>she burst out,</|quote|>"I've spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:" You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' "She was very angry. Natural! I went on," I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'" "What did she say?" Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace. " Darling Alfred' dearest Alfred' wicked calumnies' wicked lies' wicked woman' "to accuse her" dear husband!' "The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off." "But not now?" "This minute!" For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it. As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me eagerly. "Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?" I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper. "Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.
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No speaker
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'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my
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on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common
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them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this though some working men o' this town could, above my powers but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry
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o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this though some working men o' this town could, above my powers but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin alone will never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives
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said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this though some working men o' this town could, above my powers but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin alone will never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness and patience an' cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi' what they need themseln like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat will never do 't till th' Sun turns t'
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us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements." Stephen gravely shook his head. "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this though some working men o' this town could, above my powers but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin alone will never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness and patience an' cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi' what they need themseln like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat will never do 't till th' Sun turns t' ice. Most o' aw, rating 'em as so much Power, and reg'latin 'em as if they was figures in a soom, or machines: wi'out loves and likens, wi'out memories and inclinations, wi'out souls to weary and souls to hope when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi' 'em as if they'd nowt o' th' kind, and when aw goes onquiet, reproachin 'em for their want o' sitch humanly feelins in their dealins wi' yo this will never do 't, sir, till God's work is onmade." Stephen stood with the open door in his hand, waiting to know if anything more were expected of him. "Just stop a moment," said Mr. Bounderby, excessively red in the face. "I told you, the last time you were here with a grievance, that you had better turn about and come out of that. And I also told you, if you remember, that I was up to the gold spoon look-out." "I were not up to 't myseln, sir; I do assure yo." "Now it's clear to me," said Mr. Bounderby, "that you are one of those chaps who have always got a grievance. And you go about, sowing it and raising crops. That's the business
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wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else, "if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further." "Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements." Stephen gravely shook his head. "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this though some working men o' this town could, above my powers but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin alone will never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness and patience an' cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi' what they need themseln like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat will never do 't till th' Sun turns t' ice. Most o' aw, rating 'em as so much Power, and reg'latin 'em as if they was figures in a soom, or machines: wi'out loves and likens, wi'out memories and inclinations, wi'out souls to weary and souls to hope when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi' 'em as if they'd nowt o' th' kind, and when aw goes onquiet, reproachin 'em for their want o' sitch humanly feelins in their dealins wi' yo this will never do 't, sir, till God's work is onmade." Stephen stood with the open door in his hand, waiting to know if anything more were expected of him. "Just stop a moment," said Mr. Bounderby, excessively red in the face. "I told you, the last time you were here with a grievance, that you had better turn about and come out of that. And I also told you, if you remember, that I was up to the gold spoon look-out." "I were not up to 't myseln, sir; I do assure yo." "Now it's clear to me," said Mr. Bounderby, "that you are one of those chaps who have always got a grievance. And you go about, sowing it and raising crops. That's the business of _your_ life, my friend." Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting that indeed he had other business to do for his life. "You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-conditioned chap, you see," said Mr. Bounderby, "that even your own Union, the men who know you best, will have nothing to do with you. I never thought those fellows could be right in anything; but I tell you what! I so far go along with them for a novelty, that _I_'ll have nothing to do with you either." Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face. "You can finish off what you're at," said Mr. Bounderby, with a meaning nod, "and then go elsewhere." "Sir, yo know weel," said Stephen expressively, "that if I canna get work wi' yo, I canna get it elsewheer." The reply was, "What I know, I know; and what you know, you know. I have no more to say about it." Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her eyes were raised to his no more; therefore, with a sigh, and saying, barely above his breath, "Heaven help us aw in this world!" he departed. CHAPTER VI FADING AWAY IT was falling dark when Stephen came out of Mr. Bounderby's house. The shadows of night had gathered so fast, that he did not look about him when he closed the door, but plodded straight along the street. Nothing was further from his thoughts than the curious old woman he had encountered on his previous visit to the same house, when he heard a step behind him that he knew, and turning, saw her in Rachael's company. He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her only. "Ah, Rachael, my dear! Missus, thou wi' her!" "Well, and now you are surprised to be sure, and with reason I must say," the old woman returned. "Here I am again, you see." "But how wi' Rachael?" said Stephen, falling into their step, walking between them, and looking from the one to the other. "Why, I come to be with this good lass pretty much as I came to be with you," said the old woman, cheerfully, taking the reply upon herself. "My visiting time is later this year than usual, for I have been rather troubled with shortness of breath, and so put it off till the weather was fine and warm. For the same reason I don't make all
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works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements." Stephen gravely shook his head. "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."<|quote|>Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.</|quote|>"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this though some working men o' this town could, above my powers but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin alone will never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness and patience an' cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi' what they need themseln like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat will never do 't till th' Sun turns t' ice. Most o' aw, rating 'em as so much Power, and reg'latin 'em as if they was figures in a soom, or machines: wi'out loves and likens, wi'out memories and inclinations, wi'out souls to weary and souls to hope when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi' 'em as if they'd nowt o' th' kind, and when aw goes
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Hard Times
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"What do you mean?"
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Elinor
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in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You
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now go away and live in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You are very wrong. She can
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be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again" Elinor stopped him with a reproof. "Well," he replied "once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now." "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear but I will
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through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again" Elinor stopped him with a reproof. "Well," he replied "once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now." "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, God bless you!" And with these words, he almost ran out of the room. CHAPTER XLV. Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some
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in a day or two. Good bye." He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed it with affection. "And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?" said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go. Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished him well was even interested in his happiness and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging. "As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again" Elinor stopped him with a reproof. "Well," he replied "once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now." "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, God bless you!" And with these words, he almost ran out of the room. CHAPTER XLV. Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within
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and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said "There is no use in staying here; I must be off." "Are you going back to town?" "No to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good bye." He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed it with affection. "And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?" said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go. Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished him well was even interested in his happiness and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging. "As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again" Elinor stopped him with a reproof. "Well," he replied "once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now." "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, God bless you!" And with these words, he almost ran out of the room. CHAPTER XLV. Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor s heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby s visit, Marianne s safety, and her mother s expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby s leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment
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feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever." "I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness." "Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months, he spoke to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? _One_ person I was sure would represent me as capable of anything What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at eight o clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all." Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said "There is no use in staying here; I must be off." "Are you going back to town?" "No to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good bye." He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed it with affection. "And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?" said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go. Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished him well was even interested in his happiness and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging. "As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again" Elinor stopped him with a reproof. "Well," he replied "once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now." "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, God bless you!" And with these words, he almost ran out of the room. CHAPTER XLV. Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor s heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby s visit, Marianne s safety, and her mother s expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby s leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment s horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it. Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne s being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press Colonel Brandon s hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own. As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor s delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep: but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all night; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother s entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted
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said "There is no use in staying here; I must be off." "Are you going back to town?" "No to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good bye." He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed it with affection. "And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?" said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go. Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished him well was even interested in his happiness and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging. "As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again" Elinor stopped him with a reproof. "Well," he replied "once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"Your sister s marriage." "You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now." "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, God bless you!" And with these words, he almost ran out of the room. CHAPTER XLV. Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. When at last she
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Sense And Sensibility
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"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"
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Isabella Thorpe
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saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am
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the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with
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by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is
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other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her
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troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his
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the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought her on purpose! it did not appear to her that life could supply any greater felicity. Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her. "Heyday, Miss Morland!" said he. "What is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together." "I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me." "That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with _you_, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously." "Oh,
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yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very." "He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?" "Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought her on purpose! it did not appear to her that life could supply any greater felicity. Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her. "Heyday, Miss Morland!" said he. "What is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together." "I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me." "That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with _you_, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously." "Oh, no; they will never think of _me_, after such a description as that." "By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for blockheads. What chap have you there?" Catherine satisfied his curiosity. "Tilney," he repeated. "Hum I do not know him. A good figure of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A famous clever animal for the road only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for the field. I would give any money for a real good hunter. I have three now, the best that ever were backed. I would not take eight hundred guineas for them. Fletcher and I mean to get a house in Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d uncomfortable, living at an inn." This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine s attention, for he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours." "But they are such very different things!" "That you think they cannot be compared together." "To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour." "And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking;
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attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys.<|quote|>"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine,"</|quote|>whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought her on purpose! it did not appear to her that life could supply any greater felicity. Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her. "Heyday, Miss Morland!" said he. "What is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together." "I wonder you should think so, for you never asked me." "That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with _you_, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes; I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously." "Oh, no; they will never think of _me_, after such a description as that." "By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for blockheads. What chap have you there?" Catherine satisfied his curiosity. "Tilney," he repeated. "Hum I do not know him. A good figure of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. A famous clever animal for the road only forty guineas. I had fifty minds to buy it myself, for it is one of my maxims always to buy a good horse when I meet with one; but it would not answer my purpose, it would not do for the field.
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Northanger Abbey
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repeated Mr. Wilcox.
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No speaker
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if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison.
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hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him.
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start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her
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enhance her admiration of the male. "I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave
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grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you," he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. "I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End. CHAPTER XLIV Tom s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?" Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was
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pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now. She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside." "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" "What about?" "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you," he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. "I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End. CHAPTER XLIV Tom s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?" Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?" she asked. "Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?" "I haven t the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work again. "Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?" Tom held out his arms. "That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret. "He is fond of baby. That s why he does it!" was Helen s answer. "They re going to be lifelong friends." "Starting at the ages of six and one?" "Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom." "It may be a greater thing for baby." Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These little events
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but perhaps the fall was inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she could imagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the world s glory not diminished, but different in kind to what she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial things are blurred. Margaret had been tending this way all the winter. Leonard s death brought her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped with his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams. With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would settle down--though she could not realise this. In her eyes Henry was always moving and causing others to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate Heaven. Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An eternal future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained, though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it. "Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked. "He didn t say, madam." "You haven t any note for me?" "He didn t say, madam." After a moment s thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now. She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside." "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" "What about?" "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you," he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. "I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End. CHAPTER XLIV Tom s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?" Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?" she asked. "Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?" "I haven t the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work again. "Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?" Tom held out his arms. "That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret. "He is fond of baby. That s why he does it!" was Helen s answer. "They re going to be lifelong friends." "Starting at the ages of six and one?" "Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom." "It may be a greater thing for baby." Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year. Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every winter lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, and so she could not read or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her sister were sitting on the remains of Evie s rockery, where the lawn merged into the field. "What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can they be doing inside?" Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes. "I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. "This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house! It s very hard." "It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay fever is his chief objection against living here, but he thinks it worth while." "Meg, is or isn t he ill? I can t make out." "Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a thing." "I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle." "Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still, he wanted them all to come. It has to be." "Why does he want them?" Margaret did not answer. "Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry." "You d be odd if you didn t," said Margaret. "I usen t to." "Usen t!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen t always to see clearly before that time. It was different now. "I like Henry because he does worry." "And he likes you because you don t." Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands. After a time she said: "About love," a transition less abrupt than it appeared. Margaret never stopped working. "I mean a woman s love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life
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and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now. She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. He was standing a little outside Charles s gate, and motioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside." "It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret. "Did you get my message?" "What about?" "I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you." "I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down." "Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass." The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. "Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. "I have something to tell you," he said gently. She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. "I don t want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child." "Where are you going?" "Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill." "After the inquest?" "Yes." "Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?" "Yes, heart disease." "No, my dear; manslaughter." Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive. "Manslaughter,"<|quote|>repeated Mr. Wilcox.</|quote|>"Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don t know what to do--what to do. I m broken--I m ended." No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years imprisonment. Then Henry s fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End. CHAPTER XLIV Tom s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. "I haven t any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?" Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?" she asked. "Tom wants to know whether
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Howards End
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drawled Charles.
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No speaker
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stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret,
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Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of
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Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The men are there," chorused the others. "They will see to it." "The men CAN T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You ve hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. "Of course I ve hurt myself!" she retorted. "May I
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"Yes, but no woman." "I expect a little of" "--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--" "will be more to the point than one of us!" "The insurance company see to that," remarked Charles, "and Albert will do the talking." "I want to go back, though, I say!" repeated Margaret, getting angry. Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The men are there," chorused the others. "They will see to it." "The men CAN T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You ve hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. "Of course I ve hurt myself!" she retorted. "May I ask what--" "There s nothing to ask," said Margaret. "Your hand s bleeding." "I know." "I m in for a frightful row from the pater." "You should have thought of that sooner, Charles." Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was
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a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them. "What is it?" the ladies cried. Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: "It s all right. Your car just touched a dog." "But stop!" cried Margaret, horrified. "It didn t hurt him." "Didn t really hurt him?" asked Myra. "No." "Do PLEASE stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. "I want to go back, please." Charles took no notice. "We ve left Mr. Fussell behind," said another; "and Angelo, and Crane." "Yes, but no woman." "I expect a little of" "--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--" "will be more to the point than one of us!" "The insurance company see to that," remarked Charles, "and Albert will do the talking." "I want to go back, though, I say!" repeated Margaret, getting angry. Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The men are there," chorused the others. "They will see to it." "The men CAN T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You ve hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. "Of course I ve hurt myself!" she retorted. "May I ask what--" "There s nothing to ask," said Margaret. "Your hand s bleeding." "I know." "I m in for a frightful row from the pater." "You should have thought of that sooner, Charles." Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him--and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up: their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back. Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. "It s all right!" he called. "It was a cat." "There!" exclaimed Charles triumphantly. "It s only a rotten cat." "Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn t a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the girl." But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl?
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An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional wood, an occasional "forest," treeless and brown, all hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had surmounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river-girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds across the peninsula s neck--the sort of mansion that was built all over England in the beginning of the last century, while architecture was still an expression of the national character. That was the Grange, remarked Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. "I m sorry," said he, turning round. "Do you mind getting out--by the door on the right. Steady on." "What s happened?" asked Mrs. Warrington. Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of Charles was heard saying: "Get the women out at once." There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her companions were hustled out and received into the second car. What had happened? As it started off again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them. "What is it?" the ladies cried. Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: "It s all right. Your car just touched a dog." "But stop!" cried Margaret, horrified. "It didn t hurt him." "Didn t really hurt him?" asked Myra. "No." "Do PLEASE stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. "I want to go back, please." Charles took no notice. "We ve left Mr. Fussell behind," said another; "and Angelo, and Crane." "Yes, but no woman." "I expect a little of" "--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--" "will be more to the point than one of us!" "The insurance company see to that," remarked Charles, "and Albert will do the talking." "I want to go back, though, I say!" repeated Margaret, getting angry. Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The men are there," chorused the others. "They will see to it." "The men CAN T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You ve hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. "Of course I ve hurt myself!" she retorted. "May I ask what--" "There s nothing to ask," said Margaret. "Your hand s bleeding." "I know." "I m in for a frightful row from the pater." "You should have thought of that sooner, Charles." Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him--and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up: their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back. Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. "It s all right!" he called. "It was a cat." "There!" exclaimed Charles triumphantly. "It s only a rotten cat." "Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn t a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the girl." But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering behind men, men sheltering behind servants--the whole system s wrong, and she must challenge it. "Miss Schlegel! Pon my word, you ve hurt your hand." "I m just going to see," said Margaret. "Don t you wait, Mr. Fussell." The second motor came round the corner. "It is all right, madam," said Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. "What s all right? The cat?" "Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it." "She was a very ruda girla," said Angelo from the third motor thoughtfully. "Wouldn t you have been rude?" The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became absurd. The gentlemen were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. She yielded, apologising slightly, and was led back to the car, and soon the landscape resumed its motion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey from London had been unreal. They had no
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reply, "Not I; I ve done my share," and Colonel Fussell opine that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill. Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington s daughter) appeared, and as she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little; she had been changing her smart travelling hat for a smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet child; the two Anglo-Indian ladies were always last. Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, but there were five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be packed, and five dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be put off at the last moment, because Charles declared them not necessary. The men presided over everything with unfailing good-humour. By half-past five the party was ready, and went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge. Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire. Though robbed of half its magic by swift movement, it still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing the buttresses that force the Severn eastward and make it an English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sentinels of Wales, was straight in their eyes. Having picked up another guest, they turned southward, avoiding the greater mountains, but conscious of an occasional summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in quality from that of the lower earth, and whose contours altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in progress behind those tossing horizons: the West, as ever, was retreating with some secret which may not be worth the discovery, but which no practical man will ever discover. They spoke of Tariff Reform. Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies. Like many other critics of Empire, her mouth had been stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the hospitality with which she had been received, and warn the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans. "They threaten to cut the painter," she cried, "and where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you ll undertake to keep Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is our last hope." Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, and they began to quote from their respective handbooks while the motor carried them deep into the hills. Curious these were rather than impressive, for their outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their summits suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread out to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional wood, an occasional "forest," treeless and brown, all hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had surmounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river-girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds across the peninsula s neck--the sort of mansion that was built all over England in the beginning of the last century, while architecture was still an expression of the national character. That was the Grange, remarked Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. "I m sorry," said he, turning round. "Do you mind getting out--by the door on the right. Steady on." "What s happened?" asked Mrs. Warrington. Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of Charles was heard saying: "Get the women out at once." There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her companions were hustled out and received into the second car. What had happened? As it started off again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them. "What is it?" the ladies cried. Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: "It s all right. Your car just touched a dog." "But stop!" cried Margaret, horrified. "It didn t hurt him." "Didn t really hurt him?" asked Myra. "No." "Do PLEASE stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. "I want to go back, please." Charles took no notice. "We ve left Mr. Fussell behind," said another; "and Angelo, and Crane." "Yes, but no woman." "I expect a little of" "--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--" "will be more to the point than one of us!" "The insurance company see to that," remarked Charles, "and Albert will do the talking." "I want to go back, though, I say!" repeated Margaret, getting angry. Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The men are there," chorused the others. "They will see to it." "The men CAN T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You ve hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. "Of course I ve hurt myself!" she retorted. "May I ask what--" "There s nothing to ask," said Margaret. "Your hand s bleeding." "I know." "I m in for a frightful row from the pater." "You should have thought of that sooner, Charles." Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him--and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up: their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back. Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. "It s all right!" he called. "It was a cat." "There!" exclaimed Charles triumphantly. "It s only a rotten cat." "Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn t a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the girl." But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering behind men, men sheltering behind servants--the whole system s wrong, and she must challenge it. "Miss Schlegel! Pon my word, you ve hurt your hand." "I m just going to see," said Margaret. "Don t you wait, Mr. Fussell." The second motor came round the corner. "It is all right, madam," said Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. "What s all right? The cat?" "Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it." "She was a very ruda girla," said Angelo from the third motor thoughtfully. "Wouldn t you have been rude?" The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became absurd. The gentlemen were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. She yielded, apologising slightly, and was led back to the car, and soon the landscape resumed its motion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey from London had been unreal. They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had been killed had lived more deeply than they. "Oh, Henry," she exclaimed, "I have been so naughty," for she had decided to take up this line. "We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I would, and look!" She held out her bandaged hand. "Your poor Meg went such a flop." Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to welcome his guests in the hall. "Thinking it was a dog," added Mrs. Warrington. "Ah, a dog s a companion!" said Colonel Fussell. "A dog ll remember you." "Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?" "Not to speak about; and it s my left hand." "Well, hurry up and change." She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned to his son. "Now, Charles, what s happened?" Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he believed to have happened. Albert had flattened out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as any woman might. She had been got safely into the other car, but when it was in motion had leapt out again, in spite of all that they could say. After walking a little on the road, she had calmed down and had said that she was sorry. His father accepted this explanation, and neither knew that Margaret had artfully prepared the way for it. It fitted in too well with their view of feminine nature. In the smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put forward the view that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well he remembered as a young man, in the harbour of Gibraltar once, how a girl--a handsome girl, too--had jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the lads overboard after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much more probably nerves in Miss Schlegel s case. Charles was depressed. That woman had a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on his father before she had done with them. He strolled out on to the castle mound to think the matter over. The evening was exquisite. On three sides of him a little river whispered, full of messages from the West; above his head the ruins made patterns against the sky. He carefully reviewed their dealings with
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out at once." There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her companions were hustled out and received into the second car. What had happened? As it started off again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them. "What is it?" the ladies cried. Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: "It s all right. Your car just touched a dog." "But stop!" cried Margaret, horrified. "It didn t hurt him." "Didn t really hurt him?" asked Myra. "No." "Do PLEASE stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. "I want to go back, please." Charles took no notice. "We ve left Mr. Fussell behind," said another; "and Angelo, and Crane." "Yes, but no woman." "I expect a little of" "--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--" "will be more to the point than one of us!" "The insurance company see to that," remarked Charles, "and Albert will do the talking." "I want to go back, though, I say!" repeated Margaret, getting angry. Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The men are there," chorused the others. "They will see to it." "The men CAN T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping s no good,"<|quote|>drawled Charles.</|quote|>"Isn t it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You ve hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. "Of course I ve hurt myself!" she retorted. "May I ask what--" "There s nothing to ask," said Margaret. "Your hand s bleeding." "I know." "I m in for a frightful row from the pater." "You should have thought of that sooner, Charles." Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him--and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up: their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back. Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. "It s all right!" he called. "It was a cat." "There!" exclaimed Charles triumphantly. "It s only a rotten cat." "Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn t a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the girl." But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering behind men, men sheltering behind servants--the whole system s wrong, and she must challenge it. "Miss Schlegel! Pon my word, you ve hurt your hand." "I m just going to see," said Margaret. "Don t you wait, Mr. Fussell." The second motor came round the corner. "It is all right, madam," said Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. "What s all right? The cat?" "Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it." "She was a very ruda girla," said Angelo from the third motor thoughtfully. "Wouldn t you have been rude?" The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became absurd. The gentlemen were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. She yielded, apologising slightly, and was led back to the car, and soon the landscape resumed its motion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey from London had been unreal. They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had been killed had lived more deeply than they. "Oh, Henry," she exclaimed, "I have been so naughty," for she had decided to take up this line. "We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I would, and look!" She held out her bandaged hand. "Your poor Meg went such a flop." Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to welcome his guests in the hall. "Thinking it was a dog," added Mrs. Warrington. "Ah, a dog s a companion!" said Colonel Fussell. "A dog ll remember you." "Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?" "Not to speak about; and it s my left hand." "Well, hurry up and change." She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then
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Howards End
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said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,
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No speaker
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and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My
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of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please
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couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were
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not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_
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came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with her head! Off--" "Nonsense!" said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said "Consider, my dear: she is only a child!" The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave "Turn them over!" The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. "Get up!" said the Queen, in a shrill,
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Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with her head! Off--" "Nonsense!" said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said "Consider, my dear: she is only a child!" The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave "Turn them over!" The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. "Get up!" said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else. "Leave off that!" screamed the Queen. "You make me giddy." And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, "What _have_ you been doing here?" "May it please your Majesty," said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, "we were trying--" "_I_ see!" said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. "Off with their heads!" and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. "You shan't be beheaded!" said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. "Are their heads off?" shouted the Queen. "Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!" the soldiers shouted in reply. "That's right!" shouted the Queen. "Can you play croquet?" The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. "Yes!" shouted Alice. "Come on, then!" roared
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in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. "Now, I'll manage better this time," she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had spoken first. "That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with her head! Off--" "Nonsense!" said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said "Consider, my dear: she is only a child!" The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave "Turn them over!" The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. "Get up!" said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else. "Leave off that!" screamed the Queen. "You make me giddy." And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, "What _have_ you been doing here?" "May it please your Majesty," said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, "we were trying--" "_I_ see!" said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. "Off with their heads!" and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. "You shan't be beheaded!" said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. "Are their heads off?" shouted the Queen. "Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!" the soldiers shouted in reply. "That's right!" shouted the Queen. "Can you play croquet?" The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. "Yes!" shouted Alice. "Come on, then!" roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. "It's--it's a very fine day!" said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. "Very," said Alice: "--where's the Duchess?" "Hush! Hush!" said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered "She's under sentence of execution." "What for?" said Alice. "Did you say 'What a pity!'?" the Rabbit asked. "No, I didn't," said Alice: "I don't think it's at all a pity. I said 'What for?'" "She boxed the Queen's ears--" the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little scream of laughter. "Oh, hush!" the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. "The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said--" "Get to your places!" shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches. The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it _would_ twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it
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the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!"<|quote|>said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,</|quote|>"What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with her head! Off--" "Nonsense!" said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said "Consider, my dear: she is only a child!" The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave "Turn them over!" The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. "Get up!" said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else. "Leave off that!" screamed the Queen. "You make me giddy." And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, "What _have_ you been doing here?" "May it please your Majesty," said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, "we were trying--" "_I_ see!" said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. "Off with their heads!" and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. "You shan't be beheaded!" said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. "Are their heads off?" shouted the Queen. "Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!" the soldiers shouted in reply. "That's right!" shouted the Queen. "Can you play croquet?" The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. "Yes!" shouted Alice. "Come on, then!" roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. "It's--it's a very fine day!" said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. "Very," said Alice: "--where's the Duchess?" "Hush! Hush!" said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.
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No speaker
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in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION.
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the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his
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to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with
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have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak
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the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of
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lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking
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Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable. "Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly." "Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door. "Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught
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beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up.<|quote|>Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.</|quote|>CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir,
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Don Lavington
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"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."
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Jake Barnes
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damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose
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just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty."
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"They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not
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have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not
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mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for
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must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in
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one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said. "And those green trousers." "Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing. "I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea.
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is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said.<|quote|>"When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid."</|quote|>"How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had
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The Sun Also Rises
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which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from
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No speaker
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a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination
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a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination was the same as ours.
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out together to try our fortunes in a new world. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination was the same as ours. “They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar.
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Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination was the same as ours. “They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!” This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners. I
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you can,” he said, rising, “but don’t let it influence your own story.” My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim’s manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me. BOOK I— THE SHIMERDAS I I FIRST heard of Ántonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination was the same as ours. “They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!” This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners. I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns. I could n’t see any town,
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her was exactly what I most wanted to know about Ántonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little girl who watched her come and go, had not. Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with some pride as he stood warming his hands. “I finished it last night—the thing about Ántonia,” he said. “Now, what about yours?” I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes. “Notes? I did n’t make any.” He drank his tea all at once and put down the cup. “I did n’t arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself and other people Ántonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose it has n’t any form. It has n’t any title, either.” He went into the next room, sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the word, “Ántonia.” He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it “My Ántonia.” That seemed to satisfy him. “Read it as soon as you can,” he said, rising, “but don’t let it influence your own story.” My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim’s manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me. BOOK I— THE SHIMERDAS I I FIRST heard of Ántonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination was the same as ours. “They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!” This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners. I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns. I could n’t see any town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s skirts. Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue. Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: “Hello, are you Mr. Burden’s folks? If you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto Fuchs. I’m Mr. Burden’s hired man, and I’m to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain’t you scared to come so far west?” [Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform]
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in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets new people and new enterprises with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood friends remember him. He never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color and sandy hair and quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and his sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is Western and American. During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, our talk kept returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we had known long ago and whom both of us admired. More than any other person we remembered, this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the conditions, the whole adventure of our childhood. To speak her name was to call up pictures of people and places, to set a quiet drama going in one’s brain. I had lost sight of her altogether, but Jim had found her again after long years, had renewed a friendship that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy life had set apart time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full of her that day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all my old affection for her. “I can’t see,” he said impetuously, “why you have never written anything about Ántonia.” I told him I had always felt that other people—he himself, for one—knew her much better than I. I was ready, however, to make an agreement with him; I would set down on paper all that I remembered of Ántonia if he would do the same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her. He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took hold of him. “Maybe I will, maybe I will!” he declared. He stared out of the window for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had the sudden clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. “Of course,” he said, “I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great deal about myself. It’s through myself that I knew and felt her, and I’ve had no practice in any other form of presentation.” I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most wanted to know about Ántonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little girl who watched her come and go, had not. Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with some pride as he stood warming his hands. “I finished it last night—the thing about Ántonia,” he said. “Now, what about yours?” I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes. “Notes? I did n’t make any.” He drank his tea all at once and put down the cup. “I did n’t arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself and other people Ántonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose it has n’t any form. It has n’t any title, either.” He went into the next room, sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the word, “Ántonia.” He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it “My Ántonia.” That seemed to satisfy him. “Read it as soon as you can,” he said, rising, “but don’t let it influence your own story.” My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim’s manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me. BOOK I— THE SHIMERDAS I I FIRST heard of Ántonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination was the same as ours. “They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!” This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners. I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns. I could n’t see any town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s skirts. Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue. Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: “Hello, are you Mr. Burden’s folks? If you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto Fuchs. I’m Mr. Burden’s hired man, and I’m to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain’t you scared to come so far west?” [Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform] I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might have stepped out of the pages of “Jesse James.” He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian’s. Surely this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into the empty darkness, and we followed them. I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon began to ache all over. When the straw settled down I had a hard bed. Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. No, there was nothing but land—slightly undulating, I knew, because often our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man’s jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar
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set down on paper all that I remembered of Ántonia if he would do the same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her. He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took hold of him. “Maybe I will, maybe I will!” he declared. He stared out of the window for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had the sudden clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. “Of course,” he said, “I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great deal about myself. It’s through myself that I knew and felt her, and I’ve had no practice in any other form of presentation.” I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most wanted to know about Ántonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little girl who watched her come and go, had not. Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with some pride as he stood warming his hands. “I finished it last night—the thing about Ántonia,” he said. “Now, what about yours?” I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes. “Notes? I did n’t make any.” He drank his tea all at once and put down the cup. “I did n’t arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself and other people Ántonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose it has n’t any form. It has n’t any title, either.” He went into the next room, sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the word, “Ántonia.” He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it “My Ántonia.” That seemed to satisfy him. “Read it as soon as you can,” he said, rising, “but don’t let it influence your own story.” My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim’s manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me. BOOK I— THE SHIMERDAS I I FIRST heard of Ántonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse James,”<|quote|>which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from</|quote|>“across the water” whose destination was the same as ours. “They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!” This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners. I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns. I could n’t see any town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s skirts. Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue. Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: “Hello, are you Mr. Burden’s folks? If you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto Fuchs. I’m Mr. Burden’s hired man, and I’m to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain’t you scared to come so far west?” [Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform] I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might have stepped out of the pages of “Jesse James.” He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian’s. Surely this
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My Antonia
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said the boy sharply.
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No speaker
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he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you
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me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled
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down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn
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had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this
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was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol
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evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young girl s eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman s various features--her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady s face he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?" "Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play." "And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars--I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn t give Randolph lessons--give him instruction,
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he had been perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?--a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne s observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again. "I should like to know where you got that pole," she said. "I bought it," responded Randolph. "You don t mean to say you re going to take it to Italy?" "Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared. The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment. "Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir," she replied. And she said nothing more. "Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed. "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America." "Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man. "Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired. "I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too." "I haven t had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping about. The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young girl s eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman s various features--her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady s face he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?" "Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play." "And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars--I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn t give Randolph lessons--give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He s very smart." "Yes," said Winterbourne; "he seems very smart." "Mother s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?" "Very good, I should think," said Winterbourne. "Or else she s going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. He s only nine. He s going to college." And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped. "That English lady in the cars," she said--" "Miss Featherstone--asked me if we didn t all live in hotels in America. I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came to Europe. I have never seen so many--it s nothing but hotels." But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humor with everything. She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointed--not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses and
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though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller,"<|quote|>said the boy sharply.</|quote|>"And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?" "Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play." "And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars--I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn t give Randolph lessons--give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He s very smart." "Yes," said Winterbourne; "he seems very smart." "Mother s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?" "Very good, I should think," said Winterbourne. "Or else she s going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. He s only nine. He s going to college." And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed
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Daisy Miller
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Madame Olenska looked at him.
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No speaker
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too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer
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such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with
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abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I
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the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again. "Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more." Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?" "Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement,
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"Oh, Ellen--forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!" She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don't understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are." She pronounced the "we" with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound. Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again. "Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more." Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?" "Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time--" "Time to give her up for the other woman?" "If I want to." Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses. "That IS noble," she said, with a slight break in her voice. "Yes. But it's ridiculous." "Ridiculous? Because you don't care for any one else?" "Because I don't mean to marry any one else." "Ah." There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: "This other woman--does she love you?" "Oh, there's no
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here suddenly?" Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a 'spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came." "But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?" Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected." The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that at any moment he might hear the wheels of the returning carriage. "You know that your aunt believes you will go back?" Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. A deep blush rose to her face and spread over her neck and shoulders. She blushed seldom and painfully, as if it hurt her like a burn. "Many cruel things have been believed of me," she said. "Oh, Ellen--forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!" She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don't understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are." She pronounced the "we" with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound. Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again. "Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more." Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?" "Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time--" "Time to give her up for the other woman?" "If I want to." Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses. "That IS noble," she said, with a slight break in her voice. "Yes. But it's ridiculous." "Ridiculous? Because you don't care for any one else?" "Because I don't mean to marry any one else." "Ah." There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: "This other woman--does she love you?" "Oh, there's no other woman; I mean, the person that May was thinking of is--was never--" "Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?" "There's your carriage," said Archer. She half-rose and looked about her with absent eyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa beside her and she picked them up mechanically. "Yes; I suppose I must be going." "You're going to Mrs. Struthers's?" "Yes." She smiled and added: "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why not come with me?" Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them. "May guessed the truth," he said. "There is another woman--but not the one she thinks." Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them. She
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It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you." "I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?" "She said you were used to all kinds of things--splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here." Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips. "Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and Archer remembered that he had before noticed her apparent incapacity for surprise. "You knew, then?" he broke out. She was silent for so long that the ash dropped from her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor. "She has hinted about a letter: poor darling! Medora's hints--" "Is it at your husband's request that she has arrived here suddenly?" Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a 'spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came." "But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?" Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected." The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that at any moment he might hear the wheels of the returning carriage. "You know that your aunt believes you will go back?" Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. A deep blush rose to her face and spread over her neck and shoulders. She blushed seldom and painfully, as if it hurt her like a burn. "Many cruel things have been believed of me," she said. "Oh, Ellen--forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!" She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don't understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are." She pronounced the "we" with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound. Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again. "Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more." Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?" "Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time--" "Time to give her up for the other woman?" "If I want to." Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses. "That IS noble," she said, with a slight break in her voice. "Yes. But it's ridiculous." "Ridiculous? Because you don't care for any one else?" "Because I don't mean to marry any one else." "Ah." There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: "This other woman--does she love you?" "Oh, there's no other woman; I mean, the person that May was thinking of is--was never--" "Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?" "There's your carriage," said Archer. She half-rose and looked about her with absent eyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa beside her and she picked them up mechanically. "Yes; I suppose I must be going." "You're going to Mrs. Struthers's?" "Yes." She smiled and added: "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why not come with me?" Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them. "May guessed the truth," he said. "There is another woman--but not the one she thinks." Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them. She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning. Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us." "Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!" Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity. "I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that
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has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and Archer remembered that he had before noticed her apparent incapacity for surprise. "You knew, then?" he broke out. She was silent for so long that the ash dropped from her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor. "She has hinted about a letter: poor darling! Medora's hints--" "Is it at your husband's request that she has arrived here suddenly?" Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a 'spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came." "But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?" Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected." The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that at any moment he might hear the wheels of the returning carriage. "You know that your aunt believes you will go back?" Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. A deep blush rose to her face and spread over her neck and shoulders. She blushed seldom and painfully, as if it hurt her like a burn. "Many cruel things have been believed of me," she said. "Oh, Ellen--forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!" She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don't understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are." She pronounced the "we" with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound. Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again. "Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."<|quote|>Madame Olenska looked at him.</|quote|>"Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more." Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?" "Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time--" "Time to give her up for the other woman?" "If I want to." Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses. "That IS noble," she said, with a slight break in her voice. "Yes. But it's ridiculous." "Ridiculous? Because you don't care for any one else?" "Because I don't mean to marry any one else." "Ah." There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: "This other woman--does she love you?" "Oh, there's no other woman; I mean, the person that May was thinking of is--was never--" "Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?" "There's your carriage," said Archer. She half-rose and looked about her with absent eyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa beside her and she picked them up mechanically. "Yes; I suppose I must be going." "You're going to Mrs. Struthers's?" "Yes." She smiled and added: "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why not come with me?" Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the
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The Age Of Innocence
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"I didn't."
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Jem Wimble
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dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you
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ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to
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know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?" "Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they'd ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me." "Wasn't half sewn on." "It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire." "You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and
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expect to find buttons on his clean shirts." "Yes, and badly enough you want 'em, making 'em that sticky as you do." "I can't help that; it's only sugar." "Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I'd say it--there _was_ a button on the neck." "Well, I know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?" "Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they'd ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me." "Wasn't half sewn on." "It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire." "You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you're always quarrelling." "Well, it's his fault, sir." "No, sir, it's her'n." "It's both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves." "I'm not," said Sally; "and I wish I'd never seen him." "And I'm sure I wish the same," said Jem despondently. "I never see such a
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he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of going home. "Yes, it's the sugar, sir, I know; and you'd think it would sweeten some people's temper, but it don't." "Which if it's me you mean, and you're thinking of this morning--" "Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your breakfast, and you reg'larly worried your dinner, and all on account of a button." "Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man's married he does expect to find buttons on his clean shirts." "Yes, and badly enough you want 'em, making 'em that sticky as you do." "I can't help that; it's only sugar." "Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I'd say it--there _was_ a button on the neck." "Well, I know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?" "Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they'd ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me." "Wasn't half sewn on." "It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire." "You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you're always quarrelling." "Well, it's his fault, sir." "No, sir, it's her'n." "It's both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves." "I'm not," said Sally; "and I wish I'd never seen him." "And I'm sure I wish the same," said Jem despondently. "I never see such a temper." "There, Master Don," cried the droll-looking little Dutch doll of a woman. "That's how he is always going on." "There, Jem, now you've made your poor little wife cry. You are the most discontented fellow I ever saw." "Come, I like that, Master Don; you've a deal to brag about, you have. Why, you're all at sixes and sevens at home." This was such a home thrust that Don turned angrily and walked out of the place. "There!" cried Sally. "I always knew how it would be. Master Don was the best friend we had, and now you've offended
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pretty little bantam hen. This was three months before the scene just described, but though Jem spoke in authoritative tones to the men, it was with bated breath to his little wife, who was standing in the doorway looking as fierce as a kitten, when Jem walked up in company with his young master. "Which I will not find fault before Master Lindon, Jem," she said; "but you know I do like you to be home punctual to tea." "Yes, my dear, of course, of course," said Jem, apologetically. "Not much past time, and had to shut up first." "That's what you always say when you're late. You don't know, Master Don, what a life he leads me." "'Tain't true, Master Don," cried Jem. "She's always a-wherritting me." "Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There's the tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning limp, and the flies getting at the s'rimps. It arn't your fault, sir, I know, and I'm not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this for flies." "It's the sugar, Sally," said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of going home. "Yes, it's the sugar, sir, I know; and you'd think it would sweeten some people's temper, but it don't." "Which if it's me you mean, and you're thinking of this morning--" "Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your breakfast, and you reg'larly worried your dinner, and all on account of a button." "Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man's married he does expect to find buttons on his clean shirts." "Yes, and badly enough you want 'em, making 'em that sticky as you do." "I can't help that; it's only sugar." "Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I'd say it--there _was_ a button on the neck." "Well, I know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?" "Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they'd ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me." "Wasn't half sewn on." "It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire." "You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you're always quarrelling." "Well, it's his fault, sir." "No, sir, it's her'n." "It's both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves." "I'm not," said Sally; "and I wish I'd never seen him." "And I'm sure I wish the same," said Jem despondently. "I never see such a temper." "There, Master Don," cried the droll-looking little Dutch doll of a woman. "That's how he is always going on." "There, Jem, now you've made your poor little wife cry. You are the most discontented fellow I ever saw." "Come, I like that, Master Don; you've a deal to brag about, you have. Why, you're all at sixes and sevens at home." This was such a home thrust that Don turned angrily and walked out of the place. "There!" cried Sally. "I always knew how it would be. Master Don was the best friend we had, and now you've offended him, and driven him away." "Shouldn't ha' said nasty things then," grumbled Jem, sitting down and attacking his tea. "Now he'll go straight to his uncle and tell him what a man you are." "Let him," said Jem, with his mouth full of bread and butter. "And of course you'll lose your place, and we shall be turned out into the street to starve." "Will you be quiet, Sally? How's a man to eat his tea with you going on like that?" "Turned out into the world without a chance of getting another place. Oh! It's too bad. Why did I ever marry such a man as you?" "'Cause you were glad of the chance," grumbled Jem, raising his hand to pour out some tea, but it was pushed aside indignantly, and the little woman busily, but with a great show of indignation, filled and sweetened her husband's cup, which she dabbed down before him, talking all the while, and finishing with,-- "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jem." "I am," he grumbled. "Ashamed that I was ever such a stupid as to marry a girl who's always dissatisfied. Nice home you make me." "And a nice home you
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ashamed of you." Lindon's forehead grew more wrinkled as Josiah Christmas, merchant of Bristol city, and his maternal uncle, walked into the office, whither the lad followed slowly, looking stubborn and ill-used, for Mike Bannock's poison was at work, and in his youthful ignorance and folly, he felt too angry to attempt a frank explanation. In fact, just then one idea pervaded his mind--two ideas--that his uncle was a tyrant, and that he ought to strike against his tyranny and be free. CHAPTER TWO. BLIND AS BATS. That same evening Don Lavington did not walk home with his uncle, but hung back to see Jem Wimble lock-up, and then sauntered slowly with him toward the little low house by the entrance gates, where the yard-man, as he was called, lived in charge. Jem had been in the West India merchant's service from a boy, and no one was more surprised than he when on the death of old Topley, Josiah Christmas said to him one morning,-- "Wimble, you had better take poor old Topley's place." "And--and take charge of the yard, sir?" "Yes. I can trust you, can't I?" "Oh, yes, sir; but--" "Ah! Yes. You have no wife to put in the cottage." Jem began to look foolish, and examine the lining of his hat. "Well, sir, if it comes to that," he faltered; and there was a weak comical aspect in his countenance which made Don burst out laughing. "I know, uncle," he cried, "he has got a sweetheart." "Well, Master Don," said the young man, colouring up; "and nothing to be ashamed on neither." "Certainly not," said the merchant quietly. "You had better get married, Wimble, and you can have the cottage. I will buy and lend you old Topley's furniture." Wimble begged pardon afterwards, for on hearing all this astounding news, he rushed out of the office, pulled off his leather apron, put on his coat as he ran, and disappeared for an hour, at the end of which time he returned, went mysteriously up to Don and whispered,-- "It's all right, sir; she says she will." The result was that Jem Wimble looked twice as important, and cocked his cocked hat on one side, for he had ten shillings a week more, and the furnished cottage, kept the keys, kept the men's time, and married a wife who bore a most extraordinary likeness to a pretty little bantam hen. This was three months before the scene just described, but though Jem spoke in authoritative tones to the men, it was with bated breath to his little wife, who was standing in the doorway looking as fierce as a kitten, when Jem walked up in company with his young master. "Which I will not find fault before Master Lindon, Jem," she said; "but you know I do like you to be home punctual to tea." "Yes, my dear, of course, of course," said Jem, apologetically. "Not much past time, and had to shut up first." "That's what you always say when you're late. You don't know, Master Don, what a life he leads me." "'Tain't true, Master Don," cried Jem. "She's always a-wherritting me." "Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There's the tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning limp, and the flies getting at the s'rimps. It arn't your fault, sir, I know, and I'm not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this for flies." "It's the sugar, Sally," said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of going home. "Yes, it's the sugar, sir, I know; and you'd think it would sweeten some people's temper, but it don't." "Which if it's me you mean, and you're thinking of this morning--" "Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your breakfast, and you reg'larly worried your dinner, and all on account of a button." "Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man's married he does expect to find buttons on his clean shirts." "Yes, and badly enough you want 'em, making 'em that sticky as you do." "I can't help that; it's only sugar." "Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I'd say it--there _was_ a button on the neck." "Well, I know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?" "Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they'd ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me." "Wasn't half sewn on." "It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire." "You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you're always quarrelling." "Well, it's his fault, sir." "No, sir, it's her'n." "It's both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves." "I'm not," said Sally; "and I wish I'd never seen him." "And I'm sure I wish the same," said Jem despondently. "I never see such a temper." "There, Master Don," cried the droll-looking little Dutch doll of a woman. "That's how he is always going on." "There, Jem, now you've made your poor little wife cry. You are the most discontented fellow I ever saw." "Come, I like that, Master Don; you've a deal to brag about, you have. Why, you're all at sixes and sevens at home." This was such a home thrust that Don turned angrily and walked out of the place. "There!" cried Sally. "I always knew how it would be. Master Don was the best friend we had, and now you've offended him, and driven him away." "Shouldn't ha' said nasty things then," grumbled Jem, sitting down and attacking his tea. "Now he'll go straight to his uncle and tell him what a man you are." "Let him," said Jem, with his mouth full of bread and butter. "And of course you'll lose your place, and we shall be turned out into the street to starve." "Will you be quiet, Sally? How's a man to eat his tea with you going on like that?" "Turned out into the world without a chance of getting another place. Oh! It's too bad. Why did I ever marry such a man as you?" "'Cause you were glad of the chance," grumbled Jem, raising his hand to pour out some tea, but it was pushed aside indignantly, and the little woman busily, but with a great show of indignation, filled and sweetened her husband's cup, which she dabbed down before him, talking all the while, and finishing with,-- "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jem." "I am," he grumbled. "Ashamed that I was ever such a stupid as to marry a girl who's always dissatisfied. Nice home you make me." "And a nice home you make me, sir; and don't eat your victuals so fast. It's like being at the wild beast show." "That's right; go on," grumbled Jem, doubling his rate of consumption. "Grudge me my meals now. Good job if we could undo it all, and be as we was." "I wish we could," cried the little woman, whose eyes seemed to say that her lips were not telling the truth. "So do I," cried Jem, tossing off his third cup of tea; and then to his little wife's astonishment he took a thick slice of bread and butter in each hand, clapped them together as if they were cymbals, rose from the table and put on his hat. "Where are you going, Jem?" "Out." "What for?" "To eat my bread and butter down on the quay." "But why, Jem?" "'Cause there's peace and quietness there." _Bang_! Went the door, and little Mrs Wimble stood gazing at it angrily for a few moments before sitting down and having what she called "a good cry," after which she rose, wiped her eyes, and put away the tea things without partaking of any herself. "Poor Jem!" she said softly; "I'm afraid I'm very unkind to him sometimes." Just at that moment Jem was sitting on an empty cask, eating his bread and butter, and watching a boat manned by blue-jackets going off to the sloop of war lying out toward the channel, and flying her colours in the evening breeze. "Poor little Sally!" he said to himself. "We don't seem to get on somehow, and I'm afraid I'm a bit rough to her; but knives and scissors! What a temper she have got." Meanwhile, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, Don had gone home to find that the tea was ready, and that he was being treated as a laggard. "Come, Lindon," said his uncle quietly, "you have kept us waiting some time." The lad glanced quickly round the well-furnished room, bright with curiosities brought in many a voyage from the west, and with the poison of Mike's words still at work, he wondered how much of what he saw rightfully belonged to him. The next moment his eyes lit on the soft sweet troubled face of his mother, full of appeal and reproach, and it seemed to Don that his uncle had been upsetting her by an account of his delinquencies. "It's
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know, Master Don, what a life he leads me." "'Tain't true, Master Don," cried Jem. "She's always a-wherritting me." "Now I appeal to Master Don: was it me, sir, as was late? There's the tea ready, and the bread and butter cut, and the watercresses turning limp, and the flies getting at the s'rimps. It arn't your fault, sir, I know, and I'm not grumbling, but there never was such a place as this for flies." "It's the sugar, Sally," said Don, who had sauntered aimlessly in with Jem, and as he stared round the neat little kitchen with the pleasant meal all ready, he felt as if he should like to stay to tea instead of going home. "Yes, it's the sugar, sir, I know; and you'd think it would sweeten some people's temper, but it don't." "Which if it's me you mean, and you're thinking of this morning--" "Which I am, Jem, and you ought to be ashamed. You grumbled over your breakfast, and you reg'larly worried your dinner, and all on account of a button." "Well, then, you should sew one on. When a man's married he does expect to find buttons on his clean shirts." "Yes, and badly enough you want 'em, making 'em that sticky as you do." "I can't help that; it's only sugar." "Only sugar indeed! And if it was my last words I'd say it--there _was_ a button on the neck." "Well, I know that," cried Jem; "and what's the good of a button being on, if it comes off directly you touch it? Is it any good, Mas' Don?" "Oh, don't ask me," cried the lad, half-amused, half annoyed, and wishing they'd ask him to tea. "He dragged it off, Master Don."<|quote|>"I didn't."</|quote|>"You did, Jem, and you know you did, just to aggravate me." "Wasn't half sewn on." "It was. I can't sew your buttons on with copper wire." "You two are just like a girl and boy," cried Don. "Here you have everything comfortable about you, and a good place, and you're always quarrelling." "Well, it's his fault, sir." "No, sir, it's her'n." "It's both your faults, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves." "I'm not," said Sally; "and I wish I'd never seen him." "And I'm sure I wish the same," said Jem despondently. "I never see such a temper." "There, Master Don," cried the droll-looking little Dutch doll of a woman. "That's how he is always going on." "There, Jem, now you've made your poor little wife cry. You are the most discontented fellow I ever saw." "Come, I like that, Master Don; you've a deal to brag about, you have. Why, you're all at sixes and sevens at home." This was such a home thrust that Don turned angrily and walked out of the place. "There!" cried Sally. "I always knew how it would be. Master Don was the best friend we had, and now you've offended him, and driven him away." "Shouldn't ha' said nasty things then," grumbled Jem, sitting down and attacking his tea. "Now he'll go straight to his uncle and tell him what a man you are." "Let him," said Jem, with his mouth full of bread and butter. "And of course you'll lose your place, and we shall be turned out into the street to starve." "Will you be quiet, Sally? How's a man to eat his tea with you going on like that?" "Turned out into the world without a chance of getting another place. Oh! It's too bad. Why did I ever marry such a man as you?" "'Cause you were glad of the chance," grumbled Jem, raising his hand to pour out some tea, but it was pushed aside indignantly, and the little woman busily, but with a great show of indignation, filled and sweetened her husband's cup, which she dabbed down before him, talking all the while, and finishing with,-- "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jem." "I am," he grumbled. "Ashamed that I was
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Don Lavington
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"Just look at him, Jem."
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Don Lavington
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without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don?
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the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him
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ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at
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off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that
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another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I
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make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I ham blessed!" For rapid almost as thought, and before Jem could recover from his surprise, the bird had darted forward, seized the fruit, and was off a dozen yards before he had darted out his hand after it. "Too late, Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don, too late that time; but I mean to ketch that chap, just to show him he arn't so clever as he thinks. You sit still, and go on eating, and don't take no notice, and look out--look out." "Oh!" ejaculated Don. For at that moment one of the birds had come up behind him, and almost before he had heard Jem's warning cry, he was made aware of the bird's presence by a sharp dig of its beak in the hand holding a portion of his dinner, which was carried rapidly away. "Magpies is nothing to 'em," cried Jem. "But wait a bit, my fine fellows, and you shall see what you shall see. Pass that there basket, Mas' Don. Ah! That's a good bait for my gentleman. Look at 'em. I can see three peeping out of the bushes. They're a-watching to see what I'm going to do." "Three! I can see four, Jem." "More
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big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I ham blessed!" For rapid almost as thought, and before Jem could recover from his surprise, the bird had darted forward, seized the fruit, and was off a dozen yards before he had darted out his hand after it. "Too late, Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don, too late that time; but I mean to ketch that chap, just to show him he arn't so clever as he thinks. You sit still, and go on eating, and don't take no notice, and look out--look out." "Oh!" ejaculated Don. For at that moment one of the birds had come up behind him, and almost before he had heard Jem's warning cry, he was made aware of the bird's presence by a sharp dig of its beak in the hand holding a portion of his dinner, which was carried rapidly away. "Magpies is nothing to 'em," cried Jem. "But wait a bit, my fine fellows, and you shall see what you shall see. Pass that there basket, Mas' Don. Ah! That's a good bait for my gentleman. Look at 'em. I can see three peeping out of the bushes. They're a-watching to see what I'm going to do." "Three! I can see four, Jem." "More for me to ketch, Mas' Don. Wonder whether they're good to eat? I say, do you think they can understand English?" Don laughed, and went on with his dinner, as Jem began to play fox, by putting a tempting-looking berry in his hand, stretching it out to the full extent of his arm, and then lying back among the ferns. "Now then, don't take no notice, Mas' Don. Let you an' me keep on feeding, and that'll 'tract 'em out." Don was already quietly "feeding," and he rested his back against a piece of stone, watching intently all the while. Two of the birds began to approach directly, while the others looked on as if deeply interested. The approach of the advance force was particularly curious, for they came on picking here and picking there, as if they had not the slightest intention of going near the fruit in Jem's hand; but in spite of several feints of going right away, always getting nearer, while Jem munched away, using his left hand, and keeping his eyes half shut. They had not long to wait, for one of the birds manoeuvred until it was a few feet away, then made a rush, caught the berry from Jem's hand, which closed with a snap, the second bird made a dart and caught the berry from the first bird's beak, and Jem sat up holding a few feathers, staring after the birds, one of which cried out in a shrill piping tone. "Yes, I'll give you pepper next time, my fine fellow!" cried Jem. "Nearly had you. My word, Mas' Don, they are quick. Give's another berry." Jem baited his natural trap again, and went on with his meal; but he had scared away the birds for the time being, and they came no more. "The worst of eating, Jem, is that it makes you lazy." "And not want to move, Mas' Don. Yes, it do. But it's my 'pinion as this was meant for a lazy country, else the water wouldn't be always on the bile, ready for use." "Think that's fire?" said Don, after a dreamy pause, during which he had lain back gazing at the brilliant silver-tipped mountain, above which floated a cloud. "No," said Jem. "I should say as there's a big hot water place up yonder, and that there's steam. Yes, one do feel lazy here; but it
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Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm.<|quote|>"Just look at him, Jem."</|quote|>"Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I ham blessed!" For rapid almost as thought, and before Jem could recover from his surprise, the bird had darted forward, seized the fruit, and was off a dozen yards before he had darted out his hand after it. "Too late, Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don, too late that time; but I mean to ketch that chap, just to
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Don Lavington
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"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"
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Henry Crawford
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he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a
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tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining
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which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world
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Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its
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tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her
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young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now." For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet?" "Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five." Mrs. Rushworth
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relation. "This chapel was fitted up as you see it, in James the Second's time. Before that period, as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off." "Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford, with a smile, to Edmund. Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together. "It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, with one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!" "Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away." "_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom." "At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way to chuse their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now." For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet?" "Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five." Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out. "Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following them. "Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants." "Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, "whether we may not find something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?" "James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet." No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper,
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a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away." "_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom." "At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way to chuse their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now." For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet?" "Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"<|quote|>"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"</|quote|>was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of
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Mansfield Park
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cried Jem scornfully.
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No speaker
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in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The
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shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for
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so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the
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to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the
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that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving
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that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet,
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body would become relaxed, and he would slip down with his head beneath the surface. As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath. Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back. But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out. "Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then
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all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure." "Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!"<|quote|>cried Jem scornfully.</|quote|>"What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and
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Don Lavington
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"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."
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Mr. Knightley
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and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged
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his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer
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the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to
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she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing
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not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to
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so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea." "I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it." "She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And" (raising his voice still more) "I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well
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will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?" He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture." "Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam," (to Mrs. Bates,) "of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea." "I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it." "She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And" (raising his voice still more) "I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well," (returning to the room,) "I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing...." "Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing." "Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be sure." 'Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?' "said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you." Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls. CHAPTER XI It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind;--but when a beginning is made--when the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt--it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more. Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes on the subject. Frank's was the first idea; and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced--for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane Fairfax--and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of
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the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea." "I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it." "She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,<|quote|>"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."</|quote|>And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And" (raising his voice still more) "I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well," (returning to the room,) "I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do
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Emma
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"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"
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Mr. Letterblair
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the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up,
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and that the close of the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary
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For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement. "In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round." "All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision. "Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?" Mr.
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trumps were still in his hands; and he waited. There had been, nevertheless, moments sufficiently difficult to pass; as when Mr. Letterblair, the day after Madame Olenska's departure, had sent for him to go over the details of the trust which Mrs. Manson Mingott wished to create for her granddaughter. For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement. "In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round." "All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision. "Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?" Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "My dear sir, the law's the law; and your wife's cousin was married under the French law. It's to be presumed she knew what that meant." "Even if she did, what happened subsequently--." But Archer paused. Mr. Letterblair had laid
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was still fighting against her fate; but she was going to Europe, and she was not returning to her husband. Nothing, therefore, was to prevent his following her; and once he had taken the irrevocable step, and had proved to her that it was irrevocable, he believed she would not send him away. This confidence in the future had steadied him to play his part in the present. It had kept him from writing to her, or betraying, by any sign or act, his misery and mortification. It seemed to him that in the deadly silent game between them the trumps were still in his hands; and he waited. There had been, nevertheless, moments sufficiently difficult to pass; as when Mr. Letterblair, the day after Madame Olenska's departure, had sent for him to go over the details of the trust which Mrs. Manson Mingott wished to create for her granddaughter. For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement. "In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round." "All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision. "Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?" Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "My dear sir, the law's the law; and your wife's cousin was married under the French law. It's to be presumed she knew what that meant." "Even if she did, what happened subsequently--." But Archer paused. Mr. Letterblair had laid his pen-handle against his big corrugated nose, and was looking down it with the expression assumed by virtuous elderly gentlemen when they wish their youngers to understand that virtue is not synonymous with ignorance. "My dear sir, I've no wish to extenuate the Count's transgressions; but--but on the other side ... I wouldn't put my hand in the fire ... well, that there hadn't been tit for tat ... with the young champion...." Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and pushed a folded paper toward Archer. "This report, the result of discreet enquiries ..." And then, as Archer made no effort
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this morning, I believe. It will make a most charming last impression. The evening before sailing is usually so dreary," Mrs. Welland cheerfully continued. Archer turned toward the door, and his mother-in-law called to him: "Do go in and have a peep at the table. And don't let May tire herself too much." But he affected not to hear, and sprang up the stairs to his library. The room looked at him like an alien countenance composed into a polite grimace; and he perceived that it had been ruthlessly "tidied," and prepared, by a judicious distribution of ash-trays and cedar-wood boxes, for the gentlemen to smoke in. "Ah, well," he thought, "it's not for long--" and he went on to his dressing-room. Ten days had passed since Madame Olenska's departure from New York. During those ten days Archer had had no sign from her but that conveyed by the return of a key wrapped in tissue paper, and sent to his office in a sealed envelope addressed in her hand. This retort to his last appeal might have been interpreted as a classic move in a familiar game; but the young man chose to give it a different meaning. She was still fighting against her fate; but she was going to Europe, and she was not returning to her husband. Nothing, therefore, was to prevent his following her; and once he had taken the irrevocable step, and had proved to her that it was irrevocable, he believed she would not send him away. This confidence in the future had steadied him to play his part in the present. It had kept him from writing to her, or betraying, by any sign or act, his misery and mortification. It seemed to him that in the deadly silent game between them the trumps were still in his hands; and he waited. There had been, nevertheless, moments sufficiently difficult to pass; as when Mr. Letterblair, the day after Madame Olenska's departure, had sent for him to go over the details of the trust which Mrs. Manson Mingott wished to create for her granddaughter. For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement. "In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round." "All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision. "Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?" Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "My dear sir, the law's the law; and your wife's cousin was married under the French law. It's to be presumed she knew what that meant." "Even if she did, what happened subsequently--." But Archer paused. Mr. Letterblair had laid his pen-handle against his big corrugated nose, and was looking down it with the expression assumed by virtuous elderly gentlemen when they wish their youngers to understand that virtue is not synonymous with ignorance. "My dear sir, I've no wish to extenuate the Count's transgressions; but--but on the other side ... I wouldn't put my hand in the fire ... well, that there hadn't been tit for tat ... with the young champion...." Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and pushed a folded paper toward Archer. "This report, the result of discreet enquiries ..." And then, as Archer made no effort to glance at the paper or to repudiate the suggestion, the lawyer somewhat flatly continued: "I don't say it's conclusive, you observe; far from it. But straws show ... and on the whole it's eminently satisfactory for all parties that this dignified solution has been reached." "Oh, eminently," Archer assented, pushing back the paper. A day or two later, on responding to a summons from Mrs. Manson Mingott, his soul had been more deeply tried. He had found the old lady depressed and querulous. "You know she's deserted me?" she began at once; and without waiting for his reply: "Oh, don't ask me why! She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all. My private belief is that she couldn't face the boredom. At any rate that's what Augusta and my daughters-in-law think. And I don't know that I altogether blame her. Olenski's a finished scoundrel; but life with him must have been a good deal gayer than it is in Fifth Avenue. Not that the family would admit that: they think Fifth Avenue is Heaven with the rue de la Paix thrown in. And poor Ellen, of course, has no idea of going back to her husband. She
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with Roman punch, roses from Henderson's, and menus on gilt-edged cards, was a different affair, and not to be lightly undertaken. As Mrs. Archer remarked, the Roman punch made all the difference; not in itself but by its manifold implications--since it signified either canvas-backs or terrapin, two soups, a hot and a cold sweet, full decolletage with short sleeves, and guests of a proportionate importance. It was always an interesting occasion when a young pair launched their first invitations in the third person, and their summons was seldom refused even by the seasoned and sought-after. Still, it was admittedly a triumph that the van der Luydens, at May's request, should have stayed over in order to be present at her farewell dinner for the Countess Olenska. The two mothers-in-law sat in May's drawing-room on the afternoon of the great day, Mrs. Archer writing out the menus on Tiffany's thickest gilt-edged bristol, while Mrs. Welland superintended the placing of the palms and standard lamps. Archer, arriving late from his office, found them still there. Mrs. Archer had turned her attention to the name-cards for the table, and Mrs. Welland was considering the effect of bringing forward the large gilt sofa, so that another "corner" might be created between the piano and the window. May, they told him, was in the dining-room inspecting the mound of Jacqueminot roses and maidenhair in the centre of the long table, and the placing of the Maillard bonbons in openwork silver baskets between the candelabra. On the piano stood a large basket of orchids which Mr. van der Luyden had had sent from Skuytercliff. Everything was, in short, as it should be on the approach of so considerable an event. Mrs. Archer ran thoughtfully over the list, checking off each name with her sharp gold pen. "Henry van der Luyden--Louisa--the Lovell Mingotts--the Reggie Chiverses--Lawrence Lefferts and Gertrude--(yes, I suppose May was right to have them)--the Selfridge Merrys, Sillerton Jackson, Van Newland and his wife. (How time passes! It seems only yesterday that he was your best man, Newland)--and Countess Olenska--yes, I think that's all...." Mrs. Welland surveyed her son-in-law affectionately. "No one can say, Newland, that you and May are not giving Ellen a handsome send-off." "Ah, well," said Mrs. Archer, "I understand May's wanting her cousin to tell people abroad that we're not quite barbarians." "I'm sure Ellen will appreciate it. She was to arrive this morning, I believe. It will make a most charming last impression. The evening before sailing is usually so dreary," Mrs. Welland cheerfully continued. Archer turned toward the door, and his mother-in-law called to him: "Do go in and have a peep at the table. And don't let May tire herself too much." But he affected not to hear, and sprang up the stairs to his library. The room looked at him like an alien countenance composed into a polite grimace; and he perceived that it had been ruthlessly "tidied," and prepared, by a judicious distribution of ash-trays and cedar-wood boxes, for the gentlemen to smoke in. "Ah, well," he thought, "it's not for long--" and he went on to his dressing-room. Ten days had passed since Madame Olenska's departure from New York. During those ten days Archer had had no sign from her but that conveyed by the return of a key wrapped in tissue paper, and sent to his office in a sealed envelope addressed in her hand. This retort to his last appeal might have been interpreted as a classic move in a familiar game; but the young man chose to give it a different meaning. She was still fighting against her fate; but she was going to Europe, and she was not returning to her husband. Nothing, therefore, was to prevent his following her; and once he had taken the irrevocable step, and had proved to her that it was irrevocable, he believed she would not send him away. This confidence in the future had steadied him to play his part in the present. It had kept him from writing to her, or betraying, by any sign or act, his misery and mortification. It seemed to him that in the deadly silent game between them the trumps were still in his hands; and he waited. There had been, nevertheless, moments sufficiently difficult to pass; as when Mr. Letterblair, the day after Madame Olenska's departure, had sent for him to go over the details of the trust which Mrs. Manson Mingott wished to create for her granddaughter. For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement. "In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round." "All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision. "Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?" Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "My dear sir, the law's the law; and your wife's cousin was married under the French law. It's to be presumed she knew what that meant." "Even if she did, what happened subsequently--." But Archer paused. Mr. Letterblair had laid his pen-handle against his big corrugated nose, and was looking down it with the expression assumed by virtuous elderly gentlemen when they wish their youngers to understand that virtue is not synonymous with ignorance. "My dear sir, I've no wish to extenuate the Count's transgressions; but--but on the other side ... I wouldn't put my hand in the fire ... well, that there hadn't been tit for tat ... with the young champion...." Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and pushed a folded paper toward Archer. "This report, the result of discreet enquiries ..." And then, as Archer made no effort to glance at the paper or to repudiate the suggestion, the lawyer somewhat flatly continued: "I don't say it's conclusive, you observe; far from it. But straws show ... and on the whole it's eminently satisfactory for all parties that this dignified solution has been reached." "Oh, eminently," Archer assented, pushing back the paper. A day or two later, on responding to a summons from Mrs. Manson Mingott, his soul had been more deeply tried. He had found the old lady depressed and querulous. "You know she's deserted me?" she began at once; and without waiting for his reply: "Oh, don't ask me why! She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all. My private belief is that she couldn't face the boredom. At any rate that's what Augusta and my daughters-in-law think. And I don't know that I altogether blame her. Olenski's a finished scoundrel; but life with him must have been a good deal gayer than it is in Fifth Avenue. Not that the family would admit that: they think Fifth Avenue is Heaven with the rue de la Paix thrown in. And poor Ellen, of course, has no idea of going back to her husband. She held out as firmly as ever against that. So she's to settle down in Paris with that fool Medora.... Well, Paris is Paris; and you can keep a carriage there on next to nothing. But she was as gay as a bird, and I shall miss her." Two tears, the parched tears of the old, rolled down her puffy cheeks and vanished in the abysses of her bosom. "All I ask is," she concluded, "that they shouldn't bother me any more. I must really be allowed to digest my gruel...." And she twinkled a little wistfully at Archer. It was that evening, on his return home, that May announced her intention of giving a farewell dinner to her cousin. Madame Olenska's name had not been pronounced between them since the night of her flight to Washington; and Archer looked at his wife with surprise. "A dinner--why?" he interrogated. Her colour rose. "But you like Ellen--I thought you'd be pleased." "It's awfully nice--your putting it in that way. But I really don't see--" "I mean to do it, Newland," she said, quietly rising and going to her desk. "Here are the invitations all written. Mother helped me--she agrees that we ought to." She paused, embarrassed and yet smiling, and Archer suddenly saw before him the embodied image of the Family. "Oh, all right," he said, staring with unseeing eyes at the list of guests that she had put in his hand. When he entered the drawing-room before dinner May was stooping over the fire and trying to coax the logs to burn in their unaccustomed setting of immaculate tiles. The tall lamps were all lit, and Mr. van der Luyden's orchids had been conspicuously disposed in various receptacles of modern porcelain and knobby silver. Mrs. Newland Archer's drawing-room was generally thought a great success. A gilt bamboo jardiniere, in which the primulas and cinerarias were punctually renewed, blocked the access to the bay window (where the old-fashioned would have preferred a bronze reduction of the Venus of Milo); the sofas and arm-chairs of pale brocade were cleverly grouped about little plush tables densely covered with silver toys, porcelain animals and efflorescent photograph frames; and tall rosy-shaded lamps shot up like tropical flowers among the palms. "I don't think Ellen has ever seen this room lighted up," said May, rising flushed from her struggle, and sending about her a glance of pardonable
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giving Ellen a handsome send-off." "Ah, well," said Mrs. Archer, "I understand May's wanting her cousin to tell people abroad that we're not quite barbarians." "I'm sure Ellen will appreciate it. She was to arrive this morning, I believe. It will make a most charming last impression. The evening before sailing is usually so dreary," Mrs. Welland cheerfully continued. Archer turned toward the door, and his mother-in-law called to him: "Do go in and have a peep at the table. And don't let May tire herself too much." But he affected not to hear, and sprang up the stairs to his library. The room looked at him like an alien countenance composed into a polite grimace; and he perceived that it had been ruthlessly "tidied," and prepared, by a judicious distribution of ash-trays and cedar-wood boxes, for the gentlemen to smoke in. "Ah, well," he thought, "it's not for long--" and he went on to his dressing-room. Ten days had passed since Madame Olenska's departure from New York. During those ten days Archer had had no sign from her but that conveyed by the return of a key wrapped in tissue paper, and sent to his office in a sealed envelope addressed in her hand. This retort to his last appeal might have been interpreted as a classic move in a familiar game; but the young man chose to give it a different meaning. She was still fighting against her fate; but she was going to Europe, and she was not returning to her husband. Nothing, therefore, was to prevent his following her; and once he had taken the irrevocable step, and had proved to her that it was irrevocable, he believed she would not send him away. This confidence in the future had steadied him to play his part in the present. It had kept him from writing to her, or betraying, by any sign or act, his misery and mortification. It seemed to him that in the deadly silent game between them the trumps were still in his hands; and he waited. There had been, nevertheless, moments sufficiently difficult to pass; as when Mr. Letterblair, the day after Madame Olenska's departure, had sent for him to go over the details of the trust which Mrs. Manson Mingott wished to create for her granddaughter. For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference would reveal it.<|quote|>"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement,"</|quote|>Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement. "In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round." "All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision. "Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?" Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "My dear sir, the law's the law; and your wife's cousin was married under the French law. It's to be presumed she knew what that meant." "Even if she did, what happened subsequently--." But Archer paused. Mr. Letterblair had laid his pen-handle against his big corrugated nose, and was looking down it with the expression assumed by virtuous elderly gentlemen when they wish their youngers to understand that virtue is not synonymous with ignorance. "My dear sir, I've no wish to extenuate the Count's transgressions; but--but on the other side ... I wouldn't put my hand in the fire ... well, that there hadn't been tit for tat ... with the young champion...." Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and pushed a folded paper toward Archer. "This report, the result of discreet enquiries ..." And then, as Archer made no effort to glance at the paper or to repudiate the suggestion, the lawyer somewhat flatly continued: "I don't say it's conclusive, you observe; far from it. But straws show ... and on the whole it's eminently satisfactory for all parties that this dignified solution has been reached." "Oh, eminently," Archer assented, pushing back the paper. A day or two later, on responding to a summons from Mrs. Manson Mingott, his soul had been more deeply tried. He had found the old lady depressed and querulous. "You know she's deserted me?" she began at once; and without waiting for his reply: "Oh, don't ask me why! She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all. My private belief is that she couldn't face the boredom. At any rate that's what Augusta and my daughters-in-law think. And I don't know that I altogether blame her. Olenski's a finished scoundrel; but life with him must have been a good deal gayer than it is in Fifth Avenue. Not that the family would admit that: they think Fifth Avenue is Heaven with the rue de la Paix thrown in. And poor Ellen, of course, has no idea of going back to her husband. She held out as firmly as ever against that. So she's to settle down in Paris with that fool Medora.... Well, Paris is Paris; and you can keep a carriage there on next to nothing. But she was as gay as a bird, and I shall miss her." Two tears, the parched tears of the old, rolled down her puffy cheeks and vanished in the abysses of her bosom. "All I ask is," she concluded, "that they shouldn't bother me any more. I must really be allowed to digest my gruel...." And she twinkled a little wistfully at Archer. It was that evening, on his return home, that May announced her intention of giving a farewell dinner to her cousin. Madame Olenska's name had not been pronounced between them since the night of her flight to Washington; and Archer looked at his wife with surprise. "A dinner--why?" he interrogated. Her colour rose. "But you like Ellen--I thought
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The Age Of Innocence
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As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.
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No speaker
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leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to
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something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess
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princess. I expected that he would have set a higher price upon her incomparable charms. His demand is but a trifle to what I could have done for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded
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match. Afterward she said to him: "The sultan expects your answer immediately; but," continued she, laughing, "I believe he may wait long enough." "Not so long, mother, as you imagine," replied Aladdin; "the sultan is mistaken, if he thinks by this exorbitant demand to prevent my entertaining thoughts of the princess. I expected that he would have set a higher price upon her incomparable charms. His demand is but a trifle to what I could have done for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded by a young handsome white slave, richly clothed. Go, and fetch me this present as soon as possible, that I may send it to him before the divan breaks up." The genie told him his command should be immediately obeyed, and disappeared. In a little time afterward the genie returned
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power, and I believe he will not be much pleased with my embassy this time." When she came home, full of these thoughts, she said to her son: "Indeed, child, I would not have you think any farther of your marriage with the princess. The sultan received me very kindly, and I believe he was well inclined to you; but if I am not much deceived the grand vizier has made him change his mind." She then gave her son an exact account of what the sultan had said to her, and the conditions on which he consented to the match. Afterward she said to him: "The sultan expects your answer immediately; but," continued she, laughing, "I believe he may wait long enough." "Not so long, mother, as you imagine," replied Aladdin; "the sultan is mistaken, if he thinks by this exorbitant demand to prevent my entertaining thoughts of the princess. I expected that he would have set a higher price upon her incomparable charms. His demand is but a trifle to what I could have done for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded by a young handsome white slave, richly clothed. Go, and fetch me this present as soon as possible, that I may send it to him before the divan breaks up." The genie told him his command should be immediately obeyed, and disappeared. In a little time afterward the genie returned with forty black slaves, each bearing on his head a heavy tray of pure gold, full of pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and every sort of precious stones, all larger and more beautiful than those formerly presented to the sultan. Each tray was covered with silver tissue, embroidered with flowers of gold: these, together with the white slaves, quite filled the house, which was but a small one, the little court before it, and a small garden behind. The genie asked if he had any other commands, and Aladdin telling him that he wanted nothing further, he disappeared. When Aladdin's mother
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am ready to keep mine, by making your son happy in marriage with the princess, my daughter. But as I cannot marry her without some further valuable consideration from your son, you may tell him, I will fulfil my promise as soon as he shall send me forty trays of massy gold, full of the same sort of jewels you have already made me a present of, and carried by the like number of black slaves, who shall be led by as many young and handsome white slaves, all dressed magnificently. On these conditions I am ready to bestow the princess, my daughter, upon him; therefore, good woman, go and tell him so, and I will wait till you bring me his answer." Aladdin's mother prostrated herself a second time before the sultan's throne, and retired. On her way home, she laughed within herself at her son's foolish imagination. "Where," said she, "can he get so many large gold trays, and such precious stones to fill them? Must he go again to that subterranean abode and gather them off the trees? and where will he get so many such slaves as the sultan requires? It is altogether out of his power, and I believe he will not be much pleased with my embassy this time." When she came home, full of these thoughts, she said to her son: "Indeed, child, I would not have you think any farther of your marriage with the princess. The sultan received me very kindly, and I believe he was well inclined to you; but if I am not much deceived the grand vizier has made him change his mind." She then gave her son an exact account of what the sultan had said to her, and the conditions on which he consented to the match. Afterward she said to him: "The sultan expects your answer immediately; but," continued she, laughing, "I believe he may wait long enough." "Not so long, mother, as you imagine," replied Aladdin; "the sultan is mistaken, if he thinks by this exorbitant demand to prevent my entertaining thoughts of the princess. I expected that he would have set a higher price upon her incomparable charms. His demand is but a trifle to what I could have done for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded by a young handsome white slave, richly clothed. Go, and fetch me this present as soon as possible, that I may send it to him before the divan breaks up." The genie told him his command should be immediately obeyed, and disappeared. In a little time afterward the genie returned with forty black slaves, each bearing on his head a heavy tray of pure gold, full of pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and every sort of precious stones, all larger and more beautiful than those formerly presented to the sultan. Each tray was covered with silver tissue, embroidered with flowers of gold: these, together with the white slaves, quite filled the house, which was but a small one, the little court before it, and a small garden behind. The genie asked if he had any other commands, and Aladdin telling him that he wanted nothing further, he disappeared. When Aladdin's mother came from market, she was much surprised to see so many people and such vast riches. As soon as she had laid down her provisions, she was going to pull off her veil; but her son prevented her, and said: "Mother, let us lose no time; before the sultan and the divan rise, I would have you return to the palace with this present as the dowry demanded for the princess, that he may judge by my diligence of the ardent desire I have to procure myself the honour of this alliance." Without waiting for his mother's reply, Aladdin opened the street-door, and made the slaves walk out; each white slave followed by a black with a tray upon his head. When they were all out, the mother followed the last black slave; he shut the door, and then retired to his chamber, full of hopes that the sultan, after this present, which was such as he required, would receive him as his son-in-law. The first white slave who went out made all the people who were going by stop; and before they were all clear of the house, the streets were crowded with spectators, who ran to see so
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the marriage between the Princess Badroulboudour and himself; and the next day sent his mother to the palace, to remind the sultan of his promise. The widow went to the palace, and stood in the same place as before in the hall of audience. The sultan no sooner cast his eyes upon her than he knew her again, remembered her business, and how long he had put her off: therefore, when the grand vizier was beginning to make his report, the sultan interrupted him, and said: "Vizier, I see the good woman who made me the present of jewels some months ago; forbear your report, till I have heard what she has to say." The vizier, looking about the divan, perceived the tailor's widow, and sent the chief of the mace-bearers to conduct her to the sultan. Aladdin's mother came to the foot of the throne, prostrated herself as usual, and when she rose, the sultan asked her what she would have. "Sir," said she, "I come to represent to your majesty, in the name of my son, Aladdin, that the three months, at the end of which you ordered me to come again, are expired; and to beg you to remember your promise." The sultan, when he had fixed a time to answer the request of this good woman, little thought of hearing any more of a marriage, which he imagined would be very disagreeable to the princess; so this summons for him to fulfil his promise was somewhat embarrassing; he declined giving an answer till he had consulted his vizier, and signified to him the little inclination he had to conclude a match for his daughter with a stranger, whose rank he supposed to be very mean. The grand vizier freely told the sultan his thoughts, and said to him: "In my opinion, sir, there is an infallible way for your majesty to avoid a match so disproportionate, without giving Aladdin, were he known to your majesty, any cause of complaint; which is, to set so high a price upon the princess that, however rich he may be, he cannot comply with it. This is the only way to make him desist from so bold an undertaking." The sultan, approving of the grand vizier's advice, turned to the tailor's widow and said to her: "Good woman, it is true sultans ought to abide by their words, and I am ready to keep mine, by making your son happy in marriage with the princess, my daughter. But as I cannot marry her without some further valuable consideration from your son, you may tell him, I will fulfil my promise as soon as he shall send me forty trays of massy gold, full of the same sort of jewels you have already made me a present of, and carried by the like number of black slaves, who shall be led by as many young and handsome white slaves, all dressed magnificently. On these conditions I am ready to bestow the princess, my daughter, upon him; therefore, good woman, go and tell him so, and I will wait till you bring me his answer." Aladdin's mother prostrated herself a second time before the sultan's throne, and retired. On her way home, she laughed within herself at her son's foolish imagination. "Where," said she, "can he get so many large gold trays, and such precious stones to fill them? Must he go again to that subterranean abode and gather them off the trees? and where will he get so many such slaves as the sultan requires? It is altogether out of his power, and I believe he will not be much pleased with my embassy this time." When she came home, full of these thoughts, she said to her son: "Indeed, child, I would not have you think any farther of your marriage with the princess. The sultan received me very kindly, and I believe he was well inclined to you; but if I am not much deceived the grand vizier has made him change his mind." She then gave her son an exact account of what the sultan had said to her, and the conditions on which he consented to the match. Afterward she said to him: "The sultan expects your answer immediately; but," continued she, laughing, "I believe he may wait long enough." "Not so long, mother, as you imagine," replied Aladdin; "the sultan is mistaken, if he thinks by this exorbitant demand to prevent my entertaining thoughts of the princess. I expected that he would have set a higher price upon her incomparable charms. His demand is but a trifle to what I could have done for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded by a young handsome white slave, richly clothed. Go, and fetch me this present as soon as possible, that I may send it to him before the divan breaks up." The genie told him his command should be immediately obeyed, and disappeared. In a little time afterward the genie returned with forty black slaves, each bearing on his head a heavy tray of pure gold, full of pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and every sort of precious stones, all larger and more beautiful than those formerly presented to the sultan. Each tray was covered with silver tissue, embroidered with flowers of gold: these, together with the white slaves, quite filled the house, which was but a small one, the little court before it, and a small garden behind. The genie asked if he had any other commands, and Aladdin telling him that he wanted nothing further, he disappeared. When Aladdin's mother came from market, she was much surprised to see so many people and such vast riches. As soon as she had laid down her provisions, she was going to pull off her veil; but her son prevented her, and said: "Mother, let us lose no time; before the sultan and the divan rise, I would have you return to the palace with this present as the dowry demanded for the princess, that he may judge by my diligence of the ardent desire I have to procure myself the honour of this alliance." Without waiting for his mother's reply, Aladdin opened the street-door, and made the slaves walk out; each white slave followed by a black with a tray upon his head. When they were all out, the mother followed the last black slave; he shut the door, and then retired to his chamber, full of hopes that the sultan, after this present, which was such as he required, would receive him as his son-in-law. The first white slave who went out made all the people who were going by stop; and before they were all clear of the house, the streets were crowded with spectators, who ran to see so extraordinary and magnificent a procession. The dress of each slave was so rich, both for the stuff and the jewels, that those who were dealers in them valued each at no less than a million of money; besides, the neatness and propriety of the dress, the noble air, fine shape and proportion of each slave were unparalleled; their grave walk at an equal distance from each other, the lustre of the jewels, curiously set in their girdles of gold, and the egrets of precious stones in their turbans, put the spectators into such great admiration, that they could not avoid following them with their eyes as far as possible. As soon as the first of these slaves arrived at the palace gate, the porters formed themselves into order, taking him for a prince from the magnificence of his habit, and were going to kiss the hem of his garment; but the slave, who was instructed by the genie, prevented them, and said: "We are only slaves, our master will appear at a proper time." The first slave, followed by the rest, advanced into the second court, which was very spacious, and in which the sultan's household was ranged during the sitting of the divan. The magnificence of the officers, who stood at the head of their troops, was considerably eclipsed by the slaves who bore Aladdin's present, of which they themselves made a part. As the sultan, who had been informed of their approach to the palace, had given orders for them to be admitted, they went into the divan in regular order, one part filing to the right, and the other to the left. After they were all entered, and had formed a semicircle before the sultan's throne, the black slaves laid the golden trays on the carpet, prostrating themselves, and at the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts. In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan: "Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it." The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he
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thought of hearing any more of a marriage, which he imagined would be very disagreeable to the princess; so this summons for him to fulfil his promise was somewhat embarrassing; he declined giving an answer till he had consulted his vizier, and signified to him the little inclination he had to conclude a match for his daughter with a stranger, whose rank he supposed to be very mean. The grand vizier freely told the sultan his thoughts, and said to him: "In my opinion, sir, there is an infallible way for your majesty to avoid a match so disproportionate, without giving Aladdin, were he known to your majesty, any cause of complaint; which is, to set so high a price upon the princess that, however rich he may be, he cannot comply with it. This is the only way to make him desist from so bold an undertaking." The sultan, approving of the grand vizier's advice, turned to the tailor's widow and said to her: "Good woman, it is true sultans ought to abide by their words, and I am ready to keep mine, by making your son happy in marriage with the princess, my daughter. But as I cannot marry her without some further valuable consideration from your son, you may tell him, I will fulfil my promise as soon as he shall send me forty trays of massy gold, full of the same sort of jewels you have already made me a present of, and carried by the like number of black slaves, who shall be led by as many young and handsome white slaves, all dressed magnificently. On these conditions I am ready to bestow the princess, my daughter, upon him; therefore, good woman, go and tell him so, and I will wait till you bring me his answer." Aladdin's mother prostrated herself a second time before the sultan's throne, and retired. On her way home, she laughed within herself at her son's foolish imagination. "Where," said she, "can he get so many large gold trays, and such precious stones to fill them? Must he go again to that subterranean abode and gather them off the trees? and where will he get so many such slaves as the sultan requires? It is altogether out of his power, and I believe he will not be much pleased with my embassy this time." When she came home, full of these thoughts, she said to her son: "Indeed, child, I would not have you think any farther of your marriage with the princess. The sultan received me very kindly, and I believe he was well inclined to you; but if I am not much deceived the grand vizier has made him change his mind." She then gave her son an exact account of what the sultan had said to her, and the conditions on which he consented to the match. Afterward she said to him: "The sultan expects your answer immediately; but," continued she, laughing, "I believe he may wait long enough." "Not so long, mother, as you imagine," replied Aladdin; "the sultan is mistaken, if he thinks by this exorbitant demand to prevent my entertaining thoughts of the princess. I expected that he would have set a higher price upon her incomparable charms. His demand is but a trifle to what I could have done for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."<|quote|>As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual.</|quote|>"The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded by a young handsome white slave, richly clothed. Go, and fetch me this present as soon as possible, that I may send it to him before the divan breaks up." The genie told him his command should be immediately obeyed, and disappeared. In a little time afterward the genie returned with forty black slaves, each bearing on his head a heavy tray of pure gold, full of pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and every sort of precious stones, all larger and more beautiful than those formerly presented to the sultan. Each tray was covered with silver tissue, embroidered with flowers of gold: these, together with the white slaves, quite filled the house, which was but a small one, the little court before it, and a small garden behind. The genie asked if he had any other commands, and Aladdin telling him that he wanted nothing further, he disappeared. When Aladdin's mother came from market, she was much surprised to see so many people and such vast riches. As soon as she had laid down her provisions, she was going to pull off her veil; but her son prevented her, and said: "Mother, let us lose no time; before the sultan and the divan rise, I would have you return to the palace with this present as the dowry demanded for the princess, that he may judge by my diligence of the ardent desire I have to procure myself the honour of this alliance." Without waiting for his mother's reply, Aladdin opened the street-door, and made the slaves walk out; each white slave followed by a black with a tray upon his head. When they were all out, the mother followed the last black slave; he shut the door, and then retired to his chamber, full of hopes that the sultan, after this present, which was such as he required, would receive him as his son-in-law. The first white slave who went out made all the people who were going by stop; and before they were all clear of the house, the streets were crowded with spectators, who ran to see so extraordinary and magnificent a procession. The dress of each slave was so rich, both for the stuff and the jewels, that those who were dealers in them valued each at no less than a million of money; besides, the neatness and propriety of the dress, the noble air, fine shape and proportion of each slave were unparalleled; their grave walk at an equal distance from each other, the lustre of the jewels, curiously set in their girdles of gold, and the egrets of precious stones in their turbans, put the spectators into such great admiration, that they could not avoid following them with their eyes as far as possible. As soon as the first of these slaves arrived at the palace gate, the porters formed themselves into order, taking him for a prince from the magnificence of his habit, and were going to kiss the hem of his garment; but the slave, who was
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Arabian Nights (4)
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"And does Randolph believe it?"
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Winterbourne
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simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph
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she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said
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unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." *
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was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way
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I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on
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laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center
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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 the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering
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he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh.<|quote|>"And does Randolph believe it?"</|quote|>he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which
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Daisy Miller
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She was gone.
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No speaker
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in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete
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Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James
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possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a
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ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for
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suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose
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probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish,
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solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, "I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit
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a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since."<|quote|>She was gone.</|quote|>"It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back
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Hard Times
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"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"
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Jane
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and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself,"
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done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon
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hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?" "--said Jane faintly
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with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?" "--said Jane faintly smiling,--" "You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate." "I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion." "But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required.
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brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?" "--said Jane faintly smiling,--" "You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate." "I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion." "But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of
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clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?" "Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?" "Most willingly." "You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you." Jane shook her head. "Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?" "--said Jane faintly smiling,--" "You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate." "I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion." "But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. CHAPTER XXII. The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express." Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
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four days, but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of whom we shall deprive you." "It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this winter." "It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_." "Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_." "Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?" "What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?" "--said Jane as she finished it. "Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?" "Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?" "Most willingly." "You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you." Jane shook her head. "Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?" "--said Jane faintly smiling,--" "You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate." "I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion." "But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. CHAPTER XXII. The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express." Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of;--its object was nothing less, than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of
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not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?" "What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?" "--said Jane as she finished it. "Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?" "Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?" "Most willingly." "You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you." Jane shook her head. "Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."<|quote|>"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"</|quote|>"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?" "--said Jane faintly smiling,--" "You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate." "I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion." "But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining
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Pride And Prejudice
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"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"
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Mrs. Thorpe
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a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently;
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silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though
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Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_," said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a
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my dear?" said Mrs. Allen. "No, where is he?" "He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you." "Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_," said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment s consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son." Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to
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and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still with them a hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable partner." "Very agreeable, madam." "I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?" "Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen. "No, where is he?" "He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you." "Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_," said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment s consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son." Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards and said, "Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again." "Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more." "Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half
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conceive, my dear Catherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change partners." "Upon my honour," said James, "in these public assemblies, it is as often done as not." "Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?" "No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change." "There," cried Isabella, "you hear what your sister says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven s sake, and stand by me." And off they went, to regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still with them a hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable partner." "Very agreeable, madam." "I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?" "Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen. "No, where is he?" "He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you." "Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_," said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment s consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son." Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards and said, "Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again." "Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more." "Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half hour." Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr. Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one "dearest Catherine." CHAPTER 9 The progress of Catherine s unhappiness from the events of the evening was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of
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come into this set, when you knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you." "My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not even see where you were." "So I told your brother all the time but he would not believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I but all in vain he would not stir an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such people." "Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head," whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. "It is Mr. Tilney s sister." "Oh! Heavens! You don t say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not talking about you." "But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?" "There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! Tis nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter." "And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?" "Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not very agreeable." In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella s impatient desire to see Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. "I tell you, Mr. Morland," she cried, "I would not do such a thing for all the world. How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change partners." "Upon my honour," said James, "in these public assemblies, it is as often done as not." "Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry, you never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?" "No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change." "There," cried Isabella, "you hear what your sister says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven s sake, and stand by me." And off they went, to regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still with them a hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable partner." "Very agreeable, madam." "I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?" "Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen. "No, where is he?" "He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you." "Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_," said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment s consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son." Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards and said, "Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again." "Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more." "Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half hour." Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr. Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one "dearest Catherine." CHAPTER 9 The progress of Catherine s unhappiness from the events of the evening was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This, on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there she immediately fell into a sound sleep which lasted nine hours, and from which she awoke perfectly revived, in excellent spirits, with fresh hopes and fresh schemes. The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Tilney, and almost her first resolution, to seek her for that purpose, in the pump-room at noon. In the pump-room, one so newly arrived in Bath must be met with, and that building she had already found so favourable for the discovery of female excellence, and the completion of female intimacy, so admirably adapted for secret discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably encouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by the remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether there were anyone at leisure to answer her or not. At about half past twelve, a remarkably loud rap drew her in haste to the window, and scarcely had she time to inform Catherine of there being two open carriages at the door, in the first only a servant, her brother driving Miss Thorpe in the second, before John Thorpe came running upstairs, calling out, "Well, Miss Morland, here I am. Have you been waiting long? We could not come before; the old devil of a coachmaker was such an eternity finding out a thing fit to be got into, and now it is ten thousand to one but they break down before we are out of the street. How do you do, Mrs. Allen? A famous ball last night, was not it? Come, Miss Morland, be quick, for the others are in a confounded hurry to be off. They want to get their tumble over." "What do you mean?" said Catherine. "Where are you all going to?" "Going to? Why, you have not forgot our engagement! Did not we agree together to take a drive this morning? What a head you have! We are going up Claverton Down." "Something was said about it, I remember," said Catherine,
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never stick at anything. My sweet Catherine, do support me; persuade your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would quite shock you to see me do such a thing; now would not it?" "No, not at all; but if you think it wrong, you had much better change." "There," cried Isabella, "you hear what your sister says, and yet you will not mind her. Well, remember that it is not my fault, if we set all the old ladies in Bath in a bustle. Come along, my dearest Catherine, for heaven s sake, and stand by me." And off they went, to regain their former place. John Thorpe, in the meanwhile, had walked away; and Catherine, ever willing to give Mr. Tilney an opportunity of repeating the agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope of finding him still with them a hope which, when it proved to be fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had an agreeable partner." "Very agreeable, madam." "I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?" "Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen. "No, where is he?" "He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you." "Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance. "Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked _you_," said Mrs. Allen; and after a short silence, she added, "he is a very agreeable young man."<|quote|>"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently; "I must say it, though I _am_ his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world." This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many; but it did not puzzle Mrs. Allen, for after only a moment s consideration, she said, in a whisper to Catherine, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son." Catherine was disappointed and vexed. She seemed to have missed by so little the very object she had had in view; and this persuasion did not incline her to a very gracious reply, when John Thorpe came up to her soon afterwards and said, "Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again." "Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more." "Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half hour." Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off
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Northanger Abbey
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"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."
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Thomas Gradgrind
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Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said
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all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in
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"It is of no moment," said he, "whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a
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but they're accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don't act upon my advithe, I'm damned if I don't believe they'll pith you out o' winder." Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject. "It is of no moment," said he, "whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two
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mustn't expect to see him again as long as you live." They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject, that instead of being impressed by the speaker's strong common sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered "Shame!" and the women "Brute!" and Sleary, in some haste, communicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby. "I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort, and drop it. They're a very good natur'd people, my people, but they're accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don't act upon my advithe, I'm damned if I don't believe they'll pith you out o' winder." Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject. "It is of no moment," said he, "whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked: "The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision,
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no father there, she broke into a most deplorable cry, and took refuge on the bosom of the most accomplished tight-rope lady (herself in the family-way), who knelt down on the floor to nurse her, and to weep over her. "Ith an internal thame, upon my thoul it ith," said Sleary. "O my dear father, my good kind father, where are you gone? You are gone to try to do me some good, I know! You are gone away for my sake, I am sure! And how miserable and helpless you will be without me, poor, poor father, until you come back!" It was so pathetic to hear her saying many things of this kind, with her face turned upward, and her arms stretched out as if she were trying to stop his departing shadow and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr. Bounderby (growing impatient) took the case in hand. "Now, good people all," said he, "this is wanton waste of time. Let the girl understand the fact. Let her take it from me, if you like, who have been run away from, myself. Here, what's your name! Your father has absconded deserted you and you mustn't expect to see him again as long as you live." They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject, that instead of being impressed by the speaker's strong common sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered "Shame!" and the women "Brute!" and Sleary, in some haste, communicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby. "I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort, and drop it. They're a very good natur'd people, my people, but they're accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don't act upon my advithe, I'm damned if I don't believe they'll pith you out o' winder." Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject. "It is of no moment," said he, "whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his 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
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virtues of any class of people in the world. Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary: a stout man as already mentioned, with one fixed eye, and one loose eye, a voice (if it can be called so) like the efforts of a broken old pair of bellows, a flabby surface, and a muddled head which was never sober and never drunk. "Thquire!" said Mr. Sleary, who was troubled with asthma, and whose breath came far too thick and heavy for the letter s, "Your thervant! Thith ith a bad piethe of bithnith, thith ith. You've heard of my Clown and hith dog being thuppothed to have morrithed?" He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who answered "Yes." "Well, Thquire," he returned, taking off his hat, and rubbing the lining with his pocket-handkerchief, which he kept inside for the purpose. "Ith it your intenthion to do anything for the poor girl, Thquire?" "I shall have something to propose to her when she comes back," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Glad to hear it, Thquire. Not that I want to get rid of the child, any more than I want to thtand in her way. I'm willing to take her prentith, though at her age ith late. My voithe ith a little huthky, Thquire, and not eathy heard by them ath don't know me; but if you'd been chilled and heated, heated and chilled, chilled and heated in the ring when you wath young, ath often ath I have been, _your_ voithe wouldn't have lathted out, Thquire, no more than mine." "I dare say not," said Mr. Gradgrind. "What thall it be, Thquire, while you wait? Thall it be Therry? Give it a name, Thquire!" said Mr. Sleary, with hospitable ease. "Nothing for me, I thank you," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't thay nothing, Thquire. What doth your friend thay? If you haven't took your feed yet, have a glath of bitterth." Here his daughter Josephine a pretty fair-haired girl of eighteen, who had been tied on a horse at two years old, and had made a will at twelve, which she always carried about with her, expressive of her dying desire to be drawn to the grave by the two piebald ponies cried, "Father, hush! she has come back!" Then came Sissy Jupe, running into the room as she had run out of it. And when she saw them all assembled, and saw their looks, and saw no father there, she broke into a most deplorable cry, and took refuge on the bosom of the most accomplished tight-rope lady (herself in the family-way), who knelt down on the floor to nurse her, and to weep over her. "Ith an internal thame, upon my thoul it ith," said Sleary. "O my dear father, my good kind father, where are you gone? You are gone to try to do me some good, I know! You are gone away for my sake, I am sure! And how miserable and helpless you will be without me, poor, poor father, until you come back!" It was so pathetic to hear her saying many things of this kind, with her face turned upward, and her arms stretched out as if she were trying to stop his departing shadow and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr. Bounderby (growing impatient) took the case in hand. "Now, good people all," said he, "this is wanton waste of time. Let the girl understand the fact. Let her take it from me, if you like, who have been run away from, myself. Here, what's your name! Your father has absconded deserted you and you mustn't expect to see him again as long as you live." They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject, that instead of being impressed by the speaker's strong common sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered "Shame!" and the women "Brute!" and Sleary, in some haste, communicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby. "I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort, and drop it. They're a very good natur'd people, my people, but they're accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don't act upon my advithe, I'm damned if I don't believe they'll pith you out o' winder." Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject. "It is of no moment," said he, "whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his 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
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be, Thquire, while you wait? Thall it be Therry? Give it a name, Thquire!" said Mr. Sleary, with hospitable ease. "Nothing for me, I thank you," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't thay nothing, Thquire. What doth your friend thay? If you haven't took your feed yet, have a glath of bitterth." Here his daughter Josephine a pretty fair-haired girl of eighteen, who had been tied on a horse at two years old, and had made a will at twelve, which she always carried about with her, expressive of her dying desire to be drawn to the grave by the two piebald ponies cried, "Father, hush! she has come back!" Then came Sissy Jupe, running into the room as she had run out of it. And when she saw them all assembled, and saw their looks, and saw no father there, she broke into a most deplorable cry, and took refuge on the bosom of the most accomplished tight-rope lady (herself in the family-way), who knelt down on the floor to nurse her, and to weep over her. "Ith an internal thame, upon my thoul it ith," said Sleary. "O my dear father, my good kind father, where are you gone? You are gone to try to do me some good, I know! You are gone away for my sake, I am sure! And how miserable and helpless you will be without me, poor, poor father, until you come back!" It was so pathetic to hear her saying many things of this kind, with her face turned upward, and her arms stretched out as if she were trying to stop his departing shadow and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr. Bounderby (growing impatient) took the case in hand. "Now, good people all," said he, "this is wanton waste of time. Let the girl understand the fact. Let her take it from me, if you like, who have been run away from, myself. Here, what's your name! Your father has absconded deserted you and you mustn't expect to see him again as long as you live." They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject, that instead of being impressed by the speaker's strong common sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered "Shame!" and the women "Brute!" and Sleary, in some haste, communicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby. "I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort, and drop it. They're a very good natur'd people, my people, but they're accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don't act upon my advithe, I'm damned if I don't believe they'll pith you out o' winder." Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject. "It is of no moment," said he, "whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands." "Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!" From Sleary.<|quote|>"Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case."</|quote|>"At the thame time," said Sleary, "I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don't pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip, you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don't expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay." The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his 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
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Hard Times
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"She was brought here last night,"
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Mrs. Thingummy
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where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by
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was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was
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putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left
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last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. What
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a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once a parish child the orphan of a workhouse the humble, half-starved drudge to be cuffed and
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quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die." The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him: "Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once a parish child the orphan of a workhouse the humble, half-starved drudge to be cuffed and buffeted through the world despised by all, and pitied by none. Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. CHAPTER II. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in "the house" who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be "farmed," or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too
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date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter. For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country. Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration, a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die." The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him: "Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once a parish child the orphan of a workhouse the humble, half-starved drudge to be cuffed and buffeted through the world despised by all, and pitied by none. Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. CHAPTER II. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in "the house" who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be "farmed," or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher. Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of _her_ system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this. Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences
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the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"<|quote|>"She was brought here last night,"</|quote|>replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once a parish child the orphan of a workhouse the humble, half-starved drudge to be cuffed and buffeted through the world despised by all, and pitied by none. Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. CHAPTER II. TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in "the house" who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he
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Oliver Twist
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"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."
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Lord Henry
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am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come
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am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth
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shown to be the proper bulwark for society. A smile curved Lord Henry s lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian. "Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner." "I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth to be there, too?" "Oh, yes, Harry." "He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay
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word full of terror to the British mind reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race sound English common sense he jovially termed it was shown to be the proper bulwark for society. A smile curved Lord Henry s lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian. "Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner." "I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth to be there, too?" "Oh, yes, Harry." "He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences." "How long has she been married?"
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It sounds a fascinating theory," she murmured, as she swept out of the room. "Now, mind you don t stay too long over your politics and scandal," cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to squabble upstairs." The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The word _doctrinaire_ word full of terror to the British mind reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race sound English common sense he jovially termed it was shown to be the proper bulwark for society. A smile curved Lord Henry s lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian. "Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner." "I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth to be there, too?" "Oh, yes, Harry." "He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences." "How long has she been married?" asked Dorian. "An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in. Who else is coming?" "Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian." "I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don t, but I find him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type." "I don t know if he will be able to
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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 hadn t finished your cigarette." "Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going to limit myself, for the future." "Pray don t, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a feast." Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she murmured, as she swept out of the room. "Now, mind you don t stay too long over your politics and scandal," cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to squabble upstairs." The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The word _doctrinaire_ word full of terror to the British mind reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race sound English common sense he jovially termed it was shown to be the proper bulwark for society. A smile curved Lord Henry s lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian. "Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner." "I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth to be there, too?" "Oh, yes, Harry." "He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences." "How long has she been married?" asked Dorian. "An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in. Who else is coming?" "Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian." "I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don t, but I find him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type." "I don t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father." "Ah! what a nuisance people s people are! Try and make him come. By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?" Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned. "No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three." "Did you go to the club?" "Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don t mean that. I didn t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him." Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. Something
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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 hadn t finished your cigarette." "Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going to limit myself, for the future." "Pray don t, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a feast." Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she murmured, as she swept out of the room. "Now, mind you don t stay too long over your politics and scandal," cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to squabble upstairs." The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The word _doctrinaire_ word full of terror to the British mind reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race sound English common sense he jovially termed it was shown to be the proper bulwark for society. A smile curved Lord Henry s lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian. "Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner." "I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth to be there, too?" "Oh, yes, Harry." "He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences." "How long has she been married?" asked Dorian. "An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in. Who else is coming?" "Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian." "I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don t, but I find him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type." "I don t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father." "Ah! what a nuisance people s people are! Try and make him come. By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?" Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned. "No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three." "Did you go to the club?" "Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don t mean that. I didn t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him." Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not yourself to-night." "Don t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady Narborough. I shan t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home." "All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time. The duchess is coming." "I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room. As he drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry s casual questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He winced. He hated the idea of even touching them. Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had thrust Basil Hallward s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar. Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese box of black and
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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 hadn t finished your cigarette." "Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going to limit myself, for the future." "Pray don t, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a feast." Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she murmured, as she swept out of the room. "Now, mind you don t stay too long over your politics and scandal," cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to squabble upstairs." The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The word _doctrinaire_ word full of terror to the British mind reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race sound English common sense he jovially termed it was shown to be the proper bulwark for society. A smile curved Lord Henry s lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian. "Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner." "I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."<|quote|>"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."</|quote|>"She has promised to come on the twentieth." "Is Monmouth to be there, too?" "Oh, yes, Harry." "He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences." "How long has she been married?" asked Dorian. "An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in. Who else is coming?" "Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian." "I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don t, but I find him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type." "I don t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father." "Ah! what a nuisance people s people are! Try and make him come. By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?" Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned. "No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three." "Did you go to the club?" "Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don t mean that. I didn t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him." Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not yourself to-night." "Don t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady Narborough. I shan t go upstairs.
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"How I envy you,"
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Katharine Hilbery
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to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost
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going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to
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about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping.
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this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships
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told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I
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into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he was ill versed in
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explain. Nevertheless, when he saw Katharine among the orchids, her beauty strangely emphasized by the fantastic plants, which seemed to peer and gape at her from striped hoods and fleshy throats, his ardor for botany waned, and a more complex feeling replaced it. She fell silent. The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections. In defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved hand and touched one. The sight of the rubies upon her finger affected him so disagreeably that he started and turned away. But next moment he controlled himself; he looked at her taking in one strange shape after another with the contemplative, considering gaze of a person who sees not exactly what is before him, but gropes in regions that lie beyond it. The far-away look entirely lacked self-consciousness. Denham doubted whether she remembered his presence. He could recall himself, of course, by a word or a movement but why? She was happier thus. She needed nothing that he could give her. And for him, too, perhaps, it was best to keep aloof, only to know that she existed, to preserve what he already had perfect, remote, and unbroken. Further, her still look, standing among the orchids in that hot atmosphere, strangely illustrated some scene that he had imagined in his room at home. The sight, mingling with his recollection, kept him silent when the door was shut and they were walking on again. But though she did not speak, Katharine had an uneasy sense that silence on her part was selfishness. It was selfish of her to continue, as she wished to do, a discussion of subjects not remotely connected with any human beings. She roused herself to consider their exact position upon the turbulent map of the emotions. Oh yes it was a question whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought to be holding something in her hands. But they were empty. She held them out with an exclamation. "I ve left my bag somewhere where?" The gardens had no points of the compass, so far as she was concerned. She had been walking for the most part on grass that was all she knew. Even the road to the Orchid House had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he was ill versed in the amenities of life; he was tongue-tied and awkward to the verge of obliterating his real character. He was awkwardly silent; he was awkwardly emphatic. And yet she liked him. "I don t mean what I say," she repeated good-humoredly. "Well ?" "I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard in life," he answered significantly. She flushed. He had penetrated at once to the weak spot her engagement, and had reason for what he said. He was not altogether justified now, at any rate, she was glad to remember; but she could not enlighten him and must bear his insinuations, though from the lips of a man who had behaved as he had behaved their force should not have been sharp. Nevertheless, what he said had its force, she mused; partly because he seemed unconscious of his own lapse in the case of Mary Datchet, and thus baffled her insight; partly because he always spoke with force, for what reason she did not yet feel certain. "Absolute sincerity is rather difficult, don t you think?" she inquired, with a touch of irony. "There are people one credits even with that," he replied a little vaguely. He was ashamed of his savage wish to hurt her, and yet it was not for the sake of hurting her, who was beyond his shafts, but in order to mortify his own incredibly reckless impulse of abandonment to the spirit which seemed, at moments, about to rush him to the uttermost ends of the earth. She affected him beyond the scope of his wildest dreams. He seemed to see that beneath the quiet surface of her manner, which was almost pathetically at hand and within reach for all the trivial demands of daily life, there was a spirit which she reserved or repressed for some reason either of loneliness or could it be possible of love. Was it given to Rodney to see her unmasked, unrestrained, unconscious of her duties? a creature of uncalculating passion and instinctive freedom? No; he refused to believe it. It was in her loneliness that Katharine was unreserved. "I went back to my room by myself and I did what I liked." She had said that to him, and in saying it had given him a glimpse of possibilities, even of confidences, as if he might be the one to share her loneliness, the mere hint of which
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map of the emotions. Oh yes it was a question whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought to be holding something in her hands. But they were empty. She held them out with an exclamation. "I ve left my bag somewhere where?" The gardens had no points of the compass, so far as she was concerned. She had been walking for the most part on grass that was all she knew. Even the road to the Orchid House had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!" "I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book."<|quote|>"How I envy you,"</|quote|>she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon" She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he was ill versed in the amenities of life; he was tongue-tied and awkward to the verge of obliterating his real character. He was awkwardly silent; he was awkwardly emphatic. And yet she liked him. "I don t mean what I say," she repeated good-humoredly. "Well ?" "I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard in life," he answered significantly. She flushed. He had penetrated at once to the weak spot her engagement, and had reason for what he said. He was not altogether justified now, at any rate, she was glad to remember; but she could not enlighten him and must bear his insinuations, though from the lips of a man who had behaved as he had behaved
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Night And Day
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Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.
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No speaker
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you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty."
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it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty." "We know how busy you
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believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There
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his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a
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by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where
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and Mrs. Bannister's rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq he couldn't even trust them, although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the
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had anyhow lived in India, and this consolidated it for them: he had gone with his own tulips and roses, but tulips and roses do not go. And the sister kingdoms of the north Arabia, Persia, Ferghana, Turkestan stretched out their hands as he sang, sadly, because all beauty is sad, and greeted ridiculous Chandrapore, where every street and house was divided against itself, and told her that she was a continent and a unity. Of the company, only Hamidullah had any comprehension of poetry. The minds of the others were inferior and rough. Yet they listened with pleasure, because literature had not been divorced from their civilization. The police inspector, for instance, did not feel that Aziz had degraded himself by reciting, nor break into the cheery guffaw with which an Englishman averts the infection of beauty. He just sat with his mind empty, and when his thoughts, which were mainly ignoble, flowed back into it they had a pleasant freshness. The poem had done no "good" to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved. Aziz it left thinking about women again, but in a different way: less definite, more intense. Sometimes poetry had this effect on him, sometimes it only increased his local desires, and he never knew beforehand which effect would ensue: he could discover no rule for this or for anything else in life. Hamidullah had called in on his way to a worrying committee of notables, nationalist in tendency, where Hindus, Moslems, two Sikhs, two Parsis, a Jain, and a Native Christian tried to like one another more than came natural to them. As long as someone abused the English, all went well, but nothing constructive had been achieved, and if the English were to leave India, the committee would vanish also. He was glad that Aziz, whom he loved and whose family was connected with his own, took no interest in politics, which ruin the character and career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He thought of Cambridge sadly, as of another poem that had ended. How happy he had been there, twenty years ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and Mrs. Bannister's rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq he couldn't even trust them, although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure I don't tire you by stopping?" "Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality." He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away. "He is ill and he is not ill," said Hamidullah, offering a cigarette. "And I suppose that most of us are in that same case." Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to trust each other. "The
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Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib,"<|quote|>Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit.</|quote|>"It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with
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A Passage To India
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"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"
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Newland Archer
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master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his
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at fate not as a master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of
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tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped each other up on his lips. As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressiveness increased. The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal. Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed. They had come out into the great tree-planted
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his father's mind, was talking excitedly and abundantly of Versailles. He had had but one previous glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in which he had tried to pack all the sights he had been deprived of when he had had to go with the family to Switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped each other up on his lips. As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressiveness increased. The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal. Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed. They had come out into the great tree-planted space before the Invalides. The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbol of the race's glory. Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in
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the long echoes of beauty. After all, his life had been too starved.... Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian, he found himself saying: "But I'm only fifty-seven--" and then he turned away. For such summer dreams it was too late; but surely not for a quiet harvest of friendship, of comradeship, in the blessed hush of her nearness. He went back to the hotel, where he and Dallas were to meet; and together they walked again across the Place de la Concorde and over the bridge that leads to the Chamber of Deputies. Dallas, unconscious of what was going on in his father's mind, was talking excitedly and abundantly of Versailles. He had had but one previous glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in which he had tried to pack all the sights he had been deprived of when he had had to go with the family to Switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped each other up on his lips. As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressiveness increased. The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal. Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed. They had come out into the great tree-planted space before the Invalides. The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbol of the race's glory. Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in a square near one of the avenues radiating from the Invalides; and he had pictured the quarter as quiet and almost obscure, forgetting the central splendour that lit it up. Now, by some queer process of association, that golden light became for him the pervading illumination in which she lived. For nearly thirty years, her life--of which he knew so strangely little--had been spent in this rich atmosphere that he already felt to be too dense and yet too stimulating for his lungs. He thought of the theatres she must have been to, the pictures she must have looked at,
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moved him indescribably. Dallas, for all his affectionate insight, would not have understood that. To the boy, no doubt, the episode was only a pathetic instance of vain frustration, of wasted forces. But was it really no more? For a long time Archer sat on a bench in the Champs Elysees and wondered, while the stream of life rolled by.... A few streets away, a few hours away, Ellen Olenska waited. She had never gone back to her husband, and when he had died, some years before, she had made no change in her way of living. There was nothing now to keep her and Archer apart--and that afternoon he was to see her. He got up and walked across the Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries gardens to the Louvre. She had once told him that she often went there, and he had a fancy to spend the intervening time in a place where he could think of her as perhaps having lately been. For an hour or more he wandered from gallery to gallery through the dazzle of afternoon light, and one by one the pictures burst on him in their half-forgotten splendour, filling his soul with the long echoes of beauty. After all, his life had been too starved.... Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian, he found himself saying: "But I'm only fifty-seven--" and then he turned away. For such summer dreams it was too late; but surely not for a quiet harvest of friendship, of comradeship, in the blessed hush of her nearness. He went back to the hotel, where he and Dallas were to meet; and together they walked again across the Place de la Concorde and over the bridge that leads to the Chamber of Deputies. Dallas, unconscious of what was going on in his father's mind, was talking excitedly and abundantly of Versailles. He had had but one previous glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in which he had tried to pack all the sights he had been deprived of when he had had to go with the family to Switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped each other up on his lips. As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressiveness increased. The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal. Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed. They had come out into the great tree-planted space before the Invalides. The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbol of the race's glory. Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in a square near one of the avenues radiating from the Invalides; and he had pictured the quarter as quiet and almost obscure, forgetting the central splendour that lit it up. Now, by some queer process of association, that golden light became for him the pervading illumination in which she lived. For nearly thirty years, her life--of which he knew so strangely little--had been spent in this rich atmosphere that he already felt to be too dense and yet too stimulating for his lungs. He thought of the theatres she must have been to, the pictures she must have looked at, the sober and splendid old houses she must have frequented, the people she must have talked with, the incessant stir of ideas, curiosities, images and associations thrown out by an intensely social race in a setting of immemorial manners; and suddenly he remembered the young Frenchman who had once said to him: "Ah, good conversation--there is nothing like it, is there?" Archer had not seen M. Riviere, or heard of him, for nearly thirty years; and that fact gave the measure of his ignorance of Madame Olenska's existence. More than half a lifetime divided them, and she had spent the long interval among people he did not know, in a society he but faintly guessed at, in conditions he would never wholly understand. During that time he had been living with his youthful memory of her; but she had doubtless had other and more tangible companionship. Perhaps she too had kept her memory of him as something apart; but if she had, it must have been like a relic in a small dim chapel, where there was not time to pray every day.... They had crossed the Place des Invalides, and were walking down one of the thoroughfares flanking the
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doesn't it? When she comes, SHE'S DIFFERENT--and one doesn't know why. It's exactly what I feel about Fanny." His father drew back a step, releasing his arm. "About Fanny? But, my dear fellow--I should hope so! Only I don't see--" "Dash it, Dad, don't be prehistoric! Wasn't she--once--your Fanny?" Dallas belonged body and soul to the new generation. He was the first-born of Newland and May Archer, yet it had never been possible to inculcate in him even the rudiments of reserve. "What's the use of making mysteries? It only makes people want to nose 'em out," he always objected when enjoined to discretion. But Archer, meeting his eyes, saw the filial light under their banter. "My Fanny?" "Well, the woman you'd have chucked everything for: only you didn't," continued his surprising son. "I didn't," echoed Archer with a kind of solemnity. "No: you date, you see, dear old boy. But mother said--" "Your mother?" "Yes: the day before she died. It was when she sent for me alone--you remember? She said she knew we were safe with you, and always would be, because once, when she asked you to, you'd given up the thing you most wanted." Archer received this strange communication in silence. His eyes remained unseeingly fixed on the thronged sunlit square below the window. At length he said in a low voice: "She never asked me." "No. I forgot. You never did ask each other anything, did you? And you never told each other anything. You just sat and watched each other, and guessed at what was going on underneath. A deaf-and-dumb asylum, in fact! Well, I back your generation for knowing more about each other's private thoughts than we ever have time to find out about our own.--I say, Dad," Dallas broke off, "you're not angry with me? If you are, let's make it up and go and lunch at Henri's. I've got to rush out to Versailles afterward." Archer did not accompany his son to Versailles. He preferred to spend the afternoon in solitary roamings through Paris. He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime. After a little while he did not regret Dallas's indiscretion. It seemed to take an iron band from his heart to know that, after all, some one had guessed and pitied.... And that it should have been his wife moved him indescribably. Dallas, for all his affectionate insight, would not have understood that. To the boy, no doubt, the episode was only a pathetic instance of vain frustration, of wasted forces. But was it really no more? For a long time Archer sat on a bench in the Champs Elysees and wondered, while the stream of life rolled by.... A few streets away, a few hours away, Ellen Olenska waited. She had never gone back to her husband, and when he had died, some years before, she had made no change in her way of living. There was nothing now to keep her and Archer apart--and that afternoon he was to see her. He got up and walked across the Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries gardens to the Louvre. She had once told him that she often went there, and he had a fancy to spend the intervening time in a place where he could think of her as perhaps having lately been. For an hour or more he wandered from gallery to gallery through the dazzle of afternoon light, and one by one the pictures burst on him in their half-forgotten splendour, filling his soul with the long echoes of beauty. After all, his life had been too starved.... Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian, he found himself saying: "But I'm only fifty-seven--" and then he turned away. For such summer dreams it was too late; but surely not for a quiet harvest of friendship, of comradeship, in the blessed hush of her nearness. He went back to the hotel, where he and Dallas were to meet; and together they walked again across the Place de la Concorde and over the bridge that leads to the Chamber of Deputies. Dallas, unconscious of what was going on in his father's mind, was talking excitedly and abundantly of Versailles. He had had but one previous glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in which he had tried to pack all the sights he had been deprived of when he had had to go with the family to Switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped each other up on his lips. As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressiveness increased. The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal. Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed. They had come out into the great tree-planted space before the Invalides. The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbol of the race's glory. Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in a square near one of the avenues radiating from the Invalides; and he had pictured the quarter as quiet and almost obscure, forgetting the central splendour that lit it up. Now, by some queer process of association, that golden light became for him the pervading illumination in which she lived. For nearly thirty years, her life--of which he knew so strangely little--had been spent in this rich atmosphere that he already felt to be too dense and yet too stimulating for his lungs. He thought of the theatres she must have been to, the pictures she must have looked at, the sober and splendid old houses she must have frequented, the people she must have talked with, the incessant stir of ideas, curiosities, images and associations thrown out by an intensely social race in a setting of immemorial manners; and suddenly he remembered the young Frenchman who had once said to him: "Ah, good conversation--there is nothing like it, is there?" Archer had not seen M. Riviere, or heard of him, for nearly thirty years; and that fact gave the measure of his ignorance of Madame Olenska's existence. More than half a lifetime divided them, and she had spent the long interval among people he did not know, in a society he but faintly guessed at, in conditions he would never wholly understand. During that time he had been living with his youthful memory of her; but she had doubtless had other and more tangible companionship. Perhaps she too had kept her memory of him as something apart; but if she had, it must have been like a relic in a small dim chapel, where there was not time to pray every day.... They had crossed the Place des Invalides, and were walking down one of the thoroughfares flanking the building. It was a quiet quarter, after all, in spite of its splendour and its history; and the fact gave one an idea of the riches Paris had to draw on, since such scenes as this were left to the few and the indifferent. The day was fading into a soft sun-shot haze, pricked here and there by a yellow electric light, and passers were rare in the little square into which they had turned. Dallas stopped again, and looked up. "It must be here," he said, slipping his arm through his father's with a movement from which Archer's shyness did not shrink; and they stood together looking up at the house. It was a modern building, without distinctive character, but many-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-coloured front. On one of the upper balconies, which hung well above the rounded tops of the horse-chestnuts in the square, the awnings were still lowered, as though the sun had just left it. "I wonder which floor--?" Dallas conjectured; and moving toward the porte-cochere he put his head into the porter's lodge, and came back to say: "The fifth. It must be the one with the awnings." Archer remained motionless, gazing at the upper windows as if the end of their pilgrimage had been attained. "I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son at length reminded him. The father glanced away at an empty bench under the trees. "I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said. "Why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed. "Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, to go up without me." Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?" "I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand." "Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you." Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight. "But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough." Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated
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to gallery through the dazzle of afternoon light, and one by one the pictures burst on him in their half-forgotten splendour, filling his soul with the long echoes of beauty. After all, his life had been too starved.... Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian, he found himself saying: "But I'm only fifty-seven--" and then he turned away. For such summer dreams it was too late; but surely not for a quiet harvest of friendship, of comradeship, in the blessed hush of her nearness. He went back to the hotel, where he and Dallas were to meet; and together they walked again across the Place de la Concorde and over the bridge that leads to the Chamber of Deputies. Dallas, unconscious of what was going on in his father's mind, was talking excitedly and abundantly of Versailles. He had had but one previous glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in which he had tried to pack all the sights he had been deprived of when he had had to go with the family to Switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped each other up on his lips. As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy and inexpressiveness increased. The boy was not insensitive, he knew; but he had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as a master but as an equal.<|quote|>"That's it: they feel equal to things--they know their way about,"</|quote|>he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the new generation which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal. Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping his father's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed. They had come out into the great tree-planted space before the Invalides. The dome of Mansart floated ethereally above the budding trees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbol of the race's glory. Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in a square near one of the avenues radiating from the Invalides; and he had pictured the quarter as quiet and almost obscure, forgetting the central splendour that lit it up. Now, by some queer process of association, that golden light became for him the pervading illumination in which she lived. For nearly thirty years, her life--of which he knew so strangely little--had been spent in this rich atmosphere that he already felt to be too dense and yet too stimulating for his lungs. He thought of the theatres she must have been to, the pictures she must have looked at, the sober and splendid old houses she must have frequented, the people she must have talked with, the incessant stir of ideas, curiosities, images and associations thrown out by an intensely social race in a setting of immemorial manners; and suddenly he remembered the young Frenchman who had once said to him: "Ah, good conversation--there is nothing like it, is there?" Archer had not seen M. Riviere, or heard of him, for nearly thirty years; and that fact gave the measure of his ignorance of Madame Olenska's existence. More than half a lifetime divided them, and she had spent the long interval among people he did not know, in a society he but faintly guessed at, in conditions he would never wholly understand. During that time he had been living with his youthful memory of her; but she had doubtless had other and more tangible companionship. Perhaps she too had kept her memory of him as something apart; but if she had, it must have been like a relic in a small dim chapel, where there was not time to pray every day.... They had crossed the Place des Invalides, and were walking down one of the thoroughfares flanking the building. It was a quiet quarter, after all, in spite of its splendour and its history; and the fact gave one an idea of the riches Paris had to draw on, since such scenes as this were left to the few and the indifferent. The day was fading into a soft sun-shot haze, pricked here and there by a yellow electric light, and passers were rare in the little square into which they had turned. Dallas stopped again, and looked up. "It must be here," he said, slipping his arm through his father's with a movement from which Archer's shyness did not shrink; and they stood together looking up at the house. It was a modern building, without distinctive character, but many-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-coloured front. On one of the upper balconies, which
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The Age Of Innocence
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“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”
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Lady Sandgate
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but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here
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however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord
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me about,” Lord John explained, “was that he should see the Dedborough pictures in general and the great Sir Joshua in particular--of which he had heard so much and to which I’ve been thus glad to assist him.” This news, however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord John could treat it now as simple enough. “Good as he is in all ways, he’s so best of all about showing the house and its contents that I haven’t even thought necessary to write him that I’m introducing Breckenridge.”
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her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, he’s pursuing expensive works of art.” “By which you imply that I’m one?” She might have been wound up by her disappointment to almost any irony. “I imply--or rather I affirm--that every handsome woman is! But what he arranged with me about,” Lord John explained, “was that he should see the Dedborough pictures in general and the great Sir Joshua in particular--of which he had heard so much and to which I’ve been thus glad to assist him.” This news, however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord John could treat it now as simple enough. “Good as he is in all ways, he’s so best of all about showing the house and its contents that I haven’t even thought necessary to write him that I’m introducing Breckenridge.” “I should have been happy to introduce him,” Lady Sandgate just quavered-- “if I had at all known he wanted it.” Her companion weighed the difference between them and appeared to pronounce it a trifle he didn’t care a fig for. “I surrender you that privilege then--of presenting him to
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has sent me that--which, delivered to me ten minutes ago out there, has brought me in to receive him.” The young man read out this missive. “‘Failing to find you in Bruton Street, start in pursuit and hope to overtake you about four.’” It did involve an ambiguity. “Why, he has been engaged these three days to coincide with myself, and not to fail of him has been part of my business.” Lady Sandgate, in her demonstrative way, appealed to the general rich scene. “Then why does he say it’s me he’s pursuing?” He seemed to recognise promptly enough in her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, he’s pursuing expensive works of art.” “By which you imply that I’m one?” She might have been wound up by her disappointment to almost any irony. “I imply--or rather I affirm--that every handsome woman is! But what he arranged with me about,” Lord John explained, “was that he should see the Dedborough pictures in general and the great Sir Joshua in particular--of which he had heard so much and to which I’ve been thus glad to assist him.” This news, however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord John could treat it now as simple enough. “Good as he is in all ways, he’s so best of all about showing the house and its contents that I haven’t even thought necessary to write him that I’m introducing Breckenridge.” “I should have been happy to introduce him,” Lady Sandgate just quavered-- “if I had at all known he wanted it.” Her companion weighed the difference between them and appeared to pronounce it a trifle he didn’t care a fig for. “I surrender you that privilege then--of presenting him to his host--if I’ve seemed to you to snatch it from you.” To which Lord John added, as with liberality unrestricted, “But I’ve been taking him about to see what’s worth while--as only last week to Lady Lappington’s Longhi.” This revelation, though so casual in its form, fairly drew from Lady Sandgate, as she took it in, an interrogative wail. “Her Longhi?” “Why, don’t you know her great Venetian family group, the What-do-you-call-’ems?--seven full-length figures, each one a gem, for which he paid her her price before he left the house.” She could but make it more richly resound--almost stricken, lost
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a challenge in it: “But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, would have been enough.” “Ah, but it’s all one Job! I mean it’s one idea,” he hastened to explain-- “if you think Lady Imber’s really acting on her.” “Mightn’t you go and see?” “I would in a moment if I hadn’t to look out for another matter too.” And he renewed his attention to his watch. “I mean getting straight at my American, the party I just mentioned------” But she had already taken him up. “You too have an American and a ‘party,’ and yours also motors down----?” “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” Lord John named him with a shade of elation. She gaped at the fuller light “You _know_ my Breckenridge?--who I hoped was coming for me!” Lord John as freely, but more gaily, wondered. “Had he told you so?” She held out, opened, the telegram she had kept folded in her hand since her entrance. “He has sent me that--which, delivered to me ten minutes ago out there, has brought me in to receive him.” The young man read out this missive. “‘Failing to find you in Bruton Street, start in pursuit and hope to overtake you about four.’” It did involve an ambiguity. “Why, he has been engaged these three days to coincide with myself, and not to fail of him has been part of my business.” Lady Sandgate, in her demonstrative way, appealed to the general rich scene. “Then why does he say it’s me he’s pursuing?” He seemed to recognise promptly enough in her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, he’s pursuing expensive works of art.” “By which you imply that I’m one?” She might have been wound up by her disappointment to almost any irony. “I imply--or rather I affirm--that every handsome woman is! But what he arranged with me about,” Lord John explained, “was that he should see the Dedborough pictures in general and the great Sir Joshua in particular--of which he had heard so much and to which I’ve been thus glad to assist him.” This news, however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord John could treat it now as simple enough. “Good as he is in all ways, he’s so best of all about showing the house and its contents that I haven’t even thought necessary to write him that I’m introducing Breckenridge.” “I should have been happy to introduce him,” Lady Sandgate just quavered-- “if I had at all known he wanted it.” Her companion weighed the difference between them and appeared to pronounce it a trifle he didn’t care a fig for. “I surrender you that privilege then--of presenting him to his host--if I’ve seemed to you to snatch it from you.” To which Lord John added, as with liberality unrestricted, “But I’ve been taking him about to see what’s worth while--as only last week to Lady Lappington’s Longhi.” This revelation, though so casual in its form, fairly drew from Lady Sandgate, as she took it in, an interrogative wail. “Her Longhi?” “Why, don’t you know her great Venetian family group, the What-do-you-call-’ems?--seven full-length figures, each one a gem, for which he paid her her price before he left the house.” She could but make it more richly resound--almost stricken, lost in her wistful thought: “Seven full-length figures? Her price?” “Eight thousand--slap down. Bender knows,” said Lord John, “what he wants.” “And does he want only” --her wonder grew and grew-- “What-do-you-call-’ems’?” “He most usually wants what he can’t have.” Lord John made scarce more of it than that. “But, awfully hard up as I fancy her, Lady Lappington went _at_ him.” It determined in his friend a boldly critical attitude. “How horrible--at the rate things are leaving us!” But this was far from the end of her interest. “And is that the way he pays?” “Before he leaves the house?” Lord John lived it amusedly over. “Well, _she_ took care of that.” “How incredibly vulgar!” It all had, however, for Lady Sandgate, still other connections--which might have attenuated Lady Lappington’s case, though she didn’t glance at this. “He makes the most scandalous eyes--the ruffian!--at my great-grandmother.” And then as richly to enlighten any blankness: “My tremendous Lawrence, don’t you know?--in her wedding-dress, down to her knees; with such extraordinarily speaking eyes, such lovely arms and hands, such wonderful flesh-tints: universally considered the masterpiece of the artist.” Lord John seemed to look a moment not so much at the image evoked,
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go the right way about it he’s likely to listen to me.” Lady Sandgate measured her ground--which scarce seemed extensive. “The person he most listens to just now--and in fact at any time, as you must have seen for yourself--is that arch-tormentor, or at least beautiful wheedler, his elder daughter.” “Lady Imber’s _here?_” Lord John alertly asked. “She arrived last night and--as we’ve other visitors--seems to have set up a side-show in the garden.” “Then she’ll ‘draw’ of course immensely, as she always does. But her sister won’t be in that case with her,” the young man supposed. “Because Grace feels herself naturally an independent show? So she well may,” said Lady Sandgate, “but I must tell you that when I last noticed them there Kitty was in the very act of leading her away.” Lord John figured it a moment. “Lady Imber” --he ironically enlarged the figure-- “_can_ lead people away.” “Oh, dear Grace,” his companion returned, “happens fortunately to be firm!” This seemed to strike him for a moment as equivocal. “Not against _me_, however--you don’t mean? You don’t think she has a beastly prejudice----?” “Surely you can judge about it; as knowing best what may--or what mayn’t--have happened between you.” “Well, I try to judge” --and such candour as was possible to Lord John seemed to sit for a moment on his brow. “But I’m in fear of seeing her too much as I want to see her.” There was an appeal in it that Lady Sandgate might have been moved to meet “Are you absolutely in earnest about her?” “Of course I am--why shouldn’t I be? But,” he said with impatience, “I want help.” “Very well then, that’s what Lady Imber’s giving you.” And as it appeared to take him time to read into these words their full sense, she produced others, and so far did help him--though the effort was in a degree that of her exhibiting with some complacency her own unassisted control of stray signs and shy lights. “By telling her, by bringing it home to her, that if she’ll make up her mind to accept you the Duchess will do the handsome thing. Handsome, I mean, by Kitty.” Lord John, appropriating for his convenience the truth in this, yet regarded it as open to a becoming, an improving touch from himself. “Well, and by _me_.” To which he added with more of a challenge in it: “But you really know what my mother will do?” “By my system,” Lady Sandgate smiled, “you see I’ve guessed. What your mother will do is what brought you over!” “Well, it’s that,” he allowed-- “and something else.” “Something else?” she derisively echoed. “I should think ‘that,’ for an ardent lover, would have been enough.” “Ah, but it’s all one Job! I mean it’s one idea,” he hastened to explain-- “if you think Lady Imber’s really acting on her.” “Mightn’t you go and see?” “I would in a moment if I hadn’t to look out for another matter too.” And he renewed his attention to his watch. “I mean getting straight at my American, the party I just mentioned------” But she had already taken him up. “You too have an American and a ‘party,’ and yours also motors down----?” “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” Lord John named him with a shade of elation. She gaped at the fuller light “You _know_ my Breckenridge?--who I hoped was coming for me!” Lord John as freely, but more gaily, wondered. “Had he told you so?” She held out, opened, the telegram she had kept folded in her hand since her entrance. “He has sent me that--which, delivered to me ten minutes ago out there, has brought me in to receive him.” The young man read out this missive. “‘Failing to find you in Bruton Street, start in pursuit and hope to overtake you about four.’” It did involve an ambiguity. “Why, he has been engaged these three days to coincide with myself, and not to fail of him has been part of my business.” Lady Sandgate, in her demonstrative way, appealed to the general rich scene. “Then why does he say it’s me he’s pursuing?” He seemed to recognise promptly enough in her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, he’s pursuing expensive works of art.” “By which you imply that I’m one?” She might have been wound up by her disappointment to almost any irony. “I imply--or rather I affirm--that every handsome woman is! But what he arranged with me about,” Lord John explained, “was that he should see the Dedborough pictures in general and the great Sir Joshua in particular--of which he had heard so much and to which I’ve been thus glad to assist him.” This news, however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord John could treat it now as simple enough. “Good as he is in all ways, he’s so best of all about showing the house and its contents that I haven’t even thought necessary to write him that I’m introducing Breckenridge.” “I should have been happy to introduce him,” Lady Sandgate just quavered-- “if I had at all known he wanted it.” Her companion weighed the difference between them and appeared to pronounce it a trifle he didn’t care a fig for. “I surrender you that privilege then--of presenting him to his host--if I’ve seemed to you to snatch it from you.” To which Lord John added, as with liberality unrestricted, “But I’ve been taking him about to see what’s worth while--as only last week to Lady Lappington’s Longhi.” This revelation, though so casual in its form, fairly drew from Lady Sandgate, as she took it in, an interrogative wail. “Her Longhi?” “Why, don’t you know her great Venetian family group, the What-do-you-call-’ems?--seven full-length figures, each one a gem, for which he paid her her price before he left the house.” She could but make it more richly resound--almost stricken, lost in her wistful thought: “Seven full-length figures? Her price?” “Eight thousand--slap down. Bender knows,” said Lord John, “what he wants.” “And does he want only” --her wonder grew and grew-- “What-do-you-call-’ems’?” “He most usually wants what he can’t have.” Lord John made scarce more of it than that. “But, awfully hard up as I fancy her, Lady Lappington went _at_ him.” It determined in his friend a boldly critical attitude. “How horrible--at the rate things are leaving us!” But this was far from the end of her interest. “And is that the way he pays?” “Before he leaves the house?” Lord John lived it amusedly over. “Well, _she_ took care of that.” “How incredibly vulgar!” It all had, however, for Lady Sandgate, still other connections--which might have attenuated Lady Lappington’s case, though she didn’t glance at this. “He makes the most scandalous eyes--the ruffian!--at my great-grandmother.” And then as richly to enlighten any blankness: “My tremendous Lawrence, don’t you know?--in her wedding-dress, down to her knees; with such extraordinarily speaking eyes, such lovely arms and hands, such wonderful flesh-tints: universally considered the masterpiece of the artist.” Lord John seemed to look a moment not so much at the image evoked, in which he wasn’t interested, as at certain possibilities lurking behind it. “And are you going to _sell_ the masterpiece of the artist?” She held her head high. “I’ve indignantly refused--for all his pressing me so hard.” “Yet that’s what he nevertheless pursues you to-day to keep up?” The question had a little the ring of those of which the occupant of a witness-box is mostly the subject, but Lady Sandgate was so far as this went an imperturbable witness. “I need hardly fear it perhaps if--in the light of what you tell me of your arrangement with him--his pursuit becomes, where I am concerned, a figure of speech.” “Oh,” Lord John returned, “he kills two birds with one stone--he sees both Sir Joshua and you.” This version of the case had its effect, for the moment, on his fair associate. “Does he want to buy _their_ pride and glory?” The young man, however, struck on his own side, became at first but the bright reflector of her thought. “Is that wonder for sale?” She closed her eyes as with the shudder of hearing such words. “Not, surely, by _any_ monstrous chance! Fancy dear, proud Theign------!” “I can’t fancy him--no!” And Lord John appeared to renounce the effort. “But a cat may look at a king and a sharp funny Yankee at anything.” These things might be, Lady Sandgate’s face and gesture apparently signified; but another question diverted her. “You’re clearly a wonderful showman, but do you mind my asking you whether you’re on such an occasion a--well, a closely interested one?” “‘Interested’?” he echoed; though it wasn’t to gain time, he showed, for he would in that case have taken more. “To the extent, you mean, of my little percentage?” And then as in silence she but kept a slightly grim smile on him: “Why do you ask if--with your high delicacy about your great-grandmother--you’ve nothing to place?” It took her a minute to say, while her fine eye only rolled; but when she spoke that organ boldly rested and the truth vividly appeared. “I ask because people like you, Lord John, strike me as dangerous to the--how shall I name it?--the common weal; and because of my general strong feeling that we don’t want any more of our national treasures (for I regard my great-grandmother as national) to be scattered about the world.” “There’s much in this country
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an American and a ‘party,’ and yours also motors down----?” “Mr. Breckenridge Bender.” Lord John named him with a shade of elation. She gaped at the fuller light “You _know_ my Breckenridge?--who I hoped was coming for me!” Lord John as freely, but more gaily, wondered. “Had he told you so?” She held out, opened, the telegram she had kept folded in her hand since her entrance. “He has sent me that--which, delivered to me ten minutes ago out there, has brought me in to receive him.” The young man read out this missive. “‘Failing to find you in Bruton Street, start in pursuit and hope to overtake you about four.’” It did involve an ambiguity. “Why, he has been engaged these three days to coincide with myself, and not to fail of him has been part of my business.” Lady Sandgate, in her demonstrative way, appealed to the general rich scene. “Then why does he say it’s me he’s pursuing?” He seemed to recognise promptly enough in her the sense of a menaced monopoly. “My dear lady, he’s pursuing expensive works of art.” “By which you imply that I’m one?” She might have been wound up by her disappointment to almost any irony. “I imply--or rather I affirm--that every handsome woman is! But what he arranged with me about,” Lord John explained, “was that he should see the Dedborough pictures in general and the great Sir Joshua in particular--of which he had heard so much and to which I’ve been thus glad to assist him.” This news, however, with its lively interest, but deepened the listener’s mystification.<|quote|>“Then why--this whole week that I’ve been in the house--hasn’t our good friend here mentioned to me his coming?”</|quote|>“Because our good friend here has had no reason” --Lord John could treat it now as simple enough. “Good as he is in all ways, he’s so best of all about showing the house and its contents that I haven’t even thought necessary to write him that I’m introducing Breckenridge.” “I should have been happy to introduce him,” Lady Sandgate just quavered-- “if I had at all known he wanted it.” Her companion weighed the difference between them and appeared to pronounce it a trifle he didn’t care a fig for. “I surrender you that privilege then--of presenting him to his host--if I’ve seemed to you to snatch it from you.” To which Lord John added, as with liberality unrestricted, “But I’ve been taking him about to see what’s worth while--as only last week to Lady Lappington’s Longhi.” This revelation, though so casual in its form, fairly drew from Lady Sandgate, as she took it in, an interrogative wail. “Her Longhi?” “Why, don’t you know her great Venetian family group, the What-do-you-call-’ems?--seven full-length figures, each one a gem, for which he paid her her price before he left the house.” She could but make it more richly resound--almost stricken, lost in her wistful thought: “Seven full-length figures? Her price?” “Eight thousand--slap down. Bender knows,” said Lord John, “what he wants.” “And does he want only” --her wonder grew and grew-- “What-do-you-call-’ems’?” “He most usually wants what he can’t have.” Lord John made scarce more of it than that. “But, awfully hard up as I fancy her, Lady Lappington went _at_ him.” It determined in his friend a boldly critical attitude. “How horrible--at the rate things are leaving us!” But this was far from the end of her interest. “And is that the way he pays?” “Before he leaves the house?” Lord John lived it amusedly over. “Well,
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The Outcry
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he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.
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No speaker
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"We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she
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in an ecstasy of comradeship. "We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she thought, "far away he thinks
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not partners, conspirators, people bent upon the same quest together, so that to praise the pursuit of a common end as an act of generosity was meaningless. He took her hand and pressed it, not in thanks so much as in an ecstasy of comradeship. "We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she thought, "far away he thinks of me no more." And the fancy came to her that, as they sat side by side, hand in hand, she could hear the earth pouring from above to make a barrier between them, so that, as they sat, they
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so anxious to pluck this fruit of Katharine s unexampled generosity and of his own contemptible baseness. And yet, though he used these words automatically, they had now no meaning. He was not debased in his own eyes by what he had done, and as for praising Katharine, were they not partners, conspirators, people bent upon the same quest together, so that to praise the pursuit of a common end as an act of generosity was meaningless. He took her hand and pressed it, not in thanks so much as in an ecstasy of comradeship. "We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she thought, "far away he thinks of me no more." And the fancy came to her that, as they sat side by side, hand in hand, she could hear the earth pouring from above to make a barrier between them, so that, as they sat, they were separated second by second by an impenetrable wall. The process, which affected her as that of being sealed away and for ever from all companionship with the person she cared for most, came to an end at last, and by common consent they unclasped their fingers, Rodney touching hers
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help each other. That s a Christian doctrine, isn t it?" "It sounds more like Paganism to me," Rodney groaned, as he reviewed the situation into which her Christian doctrine was plunging them. And yet he could not deny that a divine relief possessed him, and that the future, instead of wearing a lead-colored mask, now blossomed with a thousand varied gaieties and excitements. He was actually to see Cassandra within a week or perhaps less, and he was more anxious to know the date of her arrival than he could own even to himself. It seemed base to be so anxious to pluck this fruit of Katharine s unexampled generosity and of his own contemptible baseness. And yet, though he used these words automatically, they had now no meaning. He was not debased in his own eyes by what he had done, and as for praising Katharine, were they not partners, conspirators, people bent upon the same quest together, so that to praise the pursuit of a common end as an act of generosity was meaningless. He took her hand and pressed it, not in thanks so much as in an ecstasy of comradeship. "We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she thought, "far away he thinks of me no more." And the fancy came to her that, as they sat side by side, hand in hand, she could hear the earth pouring from above to make a barrier between them, so that, as they sat, they were separated second by second by an impenetrable wall. The process, which affected her as that of being sealed away and for ever from all companionship with the person she cared for most, came to an end at last, and by common consent they unclasped their fingers, Rodney touching hers with his lips, as the curtain parted, and Mrs. Hilbery peered through the opening with her benevolent and sarcastic expression to ask whether Katharine could remember was it Tuesday or Wednesday, and did she dine in Westminster? "Dearest William," she said, pausing, as if she could not resist the pleasure of encroaching for a second upon this wonderful world of love and confidence and romance. "Dearest children," she added, disappearing with an impulsive gesture, as if she forced herself to draw the curtain upon a scene which she refused all temptation to interrupt. CHAPTER XXV At a quarter-past three in
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indeed, under pledge of secrecy?" "Why not? It would be over London in ten minutes, besides, she would never even remotely understand." "Your father, then? This secrecy is detestable it s dishonorable." "My father would understand even less than my mother." "Ah, who could be expected to understand?" Rodney groaned; "but it s from your point of view that we must look at it. It s not only asking too much, it s putting you into a position a position in which I could not endure to see my own sister." "We re not brothers and sisters," she said impatiently, "and if we can t decide, who can? I m not talking nonsense," she proceeded. "I ve done my best to think this out from every point of view, and I ve come to the conclusion that there are risks which have to be taken, though I don t deny that they hurt horribly." "Katharine, you mind? You ll mind too much." "No I shan t," she said stoutly. "I shall mind a good deal, but I m prepared for that; I shall get through it, because you will help me. You ll both help me. In fact, we ll help each other. That s a Christian doctrine, isn t it?" "It sounds more like Paganism to me," Rodney groaned, as he reviewed the situation into which her Christian doctrine was plunging them. And yet he could not deny that a divine relief possessed him, and that the future, instead of wearing a lead-colored mask, now blossomed with a thousand varied gaieties and excitements. He was actually to see Cassandra within a week or perhaps less, and he was more anxious to know the date of her arrival than he could own even to himself. It seemed base to be so anxious to pluck this fruit of Katharine s unexampled generosity and of his own contemptible baseness. And yet, though he used these words automatically, they had now no meaning. He was not debased in his own eyes by what he had done, and as for praising Katharine, were they not partners, conspirators, people bent upon the same quest together, so that to praise the pursuit of a common end as an act of generosity was meaningless. He took her hand and pressed it, not in thanks so much as in an ecstasy of comradeship. "We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she thought, "far away he thinks of me no more." And the fancy came to her that, as they sat side by side, hand in hand, she could hear the earth pouring from above to make a barrier between them, so that, as they sat, they were separated second by second by an impenetrable wall. The process, which affected her as that of being sealed away and for ever from all companionship with the person she cared for most, came to an end at last, and by common consent they unclasped their fingers, Rodney touching hers with his lips, as the curtain parted, and Mrs. Hilbery peered through the opening with her benevolent and sarcastic expression to ask whether Katharine could remember was it Tuesday or Wednesday, and did she dine in Westminster? "Dearest William," she said, pausing, as if she could not resist the pleasure of encroaching for a second upon this wonderful world of love and confidence and romance. "Dearest children," she added, disappearing with an impulsive gesture, as if she forced herself to draw the curtain upon a scene which she refused all temptation to interrupt. CHAPTER XXV At a quarter-past three in the afternoon of the following Saturday Ralph Denham sat on the bank of the lake in Kew Gardens, dividing the dial-plate of his watch into sections with his forefinger. The just and inexorable nature of time itself was reflected in his face. He might have been composing a hymn to the unhasting and unresting march of that divinity. He seemed to greet the lapse of minute after minute with stern acquiescence in the inevitable order. His expression was so severe, so serene, so immobile, that it seemed obvious that for him at least there was a grandeur in the departing hour which no petty irritation on his part was to mar, although the wasting time wasted also high private hopes of his own. His face was no bad index to what went on within him. He was in a condition of mind rather too exalted for the trivialities of daily life. He could not accept the fact that a lady was fifteen minutes late in keeping her appointment without seeing in that accident the frustration of his entire life. Looking at his watch, he seemed to look deep into the springs of human existence, and by the light of what
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tell her mother that the engagement was at an end. But to do what plain duty required of an honorable man, cost an effort which only a day or two ago would have been inconceivable to him. That a relationship such as he had glanced at with desire could be possible between him and Katharine, he would have been the first, two days ago, to deny with indignation. But now his life had changed; his attitude had changed; his feelings were different; new aims and possibilities had been shown him, and they had an almost irresistible fascination and force. The training of a life of thirty-five years had not left him defenceless; he was still master of his dignity; he rose, with a mind made up to an irrevocable farewell. "I leave you, then," he said, standing up and holding out his hand with an effort that left him pale, but lent him dignity, "to tell your mother that our engagement is ended by your desire." She took his hand and held it. "You don t trust me?" she said. "I do, absolutely," he replied. "No. You don t trust me to help you.... I could help you?" "I m hopeless without your help!" he exclaimed passionately, but withdrew his hand and turned his back. When he faced her, she thought that she saw him for the first time without disguise. "It s useless to pretend that I don t understand what you re offering, Katharine. I admit what you say. Speaking to you perfectly frankly, I believe at this moment that I do love your cousin; there is a chance that, with your help, I might but no," he broke off, "it s impossible, it s wrong I m infinitely to blame for having allowed this situation to arise." "Sit beside me. Let s consider sensibly" "Your sense has been our undoing" he groaned. "I accept the responsibility." "Ah, but can I allow that?" he exclaimed. "It would mean for we must face it, Katharine that we let our engagement stand for the time nominally; in fact, of course, your freedom would be absolute." "And yours too." "Yes, we should both be free. Let us say that I saw Cassandra once, twice, perhaps, under these conditions; and then if, as I think certain, the whole thing proves a dream, we tell your mother instantly. Why not tell her now, indeed, under pledge of secrecy?" "Why not? It would be over London in ten minutes, besides, she would never even remotely understand." "Your father, then? This secrecy is detestable it s dishonorable." "My father would understand even less than my mother." "Ah, who could be expected to understand?" Rodney groaned; "but it s from your point of view that we must look at it. It s not only asking too much, it s putting you into a position a position in which I could not endure to see my own sister." "We re not brothers and sisters," she said impatiently, "and if we can t decide, who can? I m not talking nonsense," she proceeded. "I ve done my best to think this out from every point of view, and I ve come to the conclusion that there are risks which have to be taken, though I don t deny that they hurt horribly." "Katharine, you mind? You ll mind too much." "No I shan t," she said stoutly. "I shall mind a good deal, but I m prepared for that; I shall get through it, because you will help me. You ll both help me. In fact, we ll help each other. That s a Christian doctrine, isn t it?" "It sounds more like Paganism to me," Rodney groaned, as he reviewed the situation into which her Christian doctrine was plunging them. And yet he could not deny that a divine relief possessed him, and that the future, instead of wearing a lead-colored mask, now blossomed with a thousand varied gaieties and excitements. He was actually to see Cassandra within a week or perhaps less, and he was more anxious to know the date of her arrival than he could own even to himself. It seemed base to be so anxious to pluck this fruit of Katharine s unexampled generosity and of his own contemptible baseness. And yet, though he used these words automatically, they had now no meaning. He was not debased in his own eyes by what he had done, and as for praising Katharine, were they not partners, conspirators, people bent upon the same quest together, so that to praise the pursuit of a common end as an act of generosity was meaningless. He took her hand and pressed it, not in thanks so much as in an ecstasy of comradeship. "We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she thought, "far away he thinks of me no more." And the fancy came to her that, as they sat side by side, hand in hand, she could hear the earth pouring from above to make a barrier between them, so that, as they sat, they were separated second by second by an impenetrable wall. The process, which affected her as that of being sealed away and for ever from all companionship with the person she cared for most, came to an end at last, and by common consent they unclasped their fingers, Rodney touching hers with his lips, as the curtain parted, and Mrs. Hilbery peered through the opening with her benevolent and sarcastic expression to ask whether Katharine could remember was it Tuesday or Wednesday, and did she dine in Westminster? "Dearest William," she said, pausing, as if she could not resist the pleasure of encroaching for a second upon this wonderful world of love and confidence and romance. "Dearest children," she added, disappearing with an impulsive gesture, as if she forced herself to draw the curtain upon a scene which she refused all temptation to interrupt. CHAPTER XXV At a quarter-past three in the afternoon of the following Saturday Ralph Denham sat on the bank of the lake in Kew Gardens, dividing the dial-plate of his watch into sections with his forefinger. The just and inexorable nature of time itself was reflected in his face. He might have been composing a hymn to the unhasting and unresting march of that divinity. He seemed to greet the lapse of minute after minute with stern acquiescence in the inevitable order. His expression was so severe, so serene, so immobile, that it seemed obvious that for him at least there was a grandeur in the departing hour which no petty irritation on his part was to mar, although the wasting time wasted also high private hopes of his own. His face was no bad index to what went on within him. He was in a condition of mind rather too exalted for the trivialities of daily life. He could not accept the fact that a lady was fifteen minutes late in keeping her appointment without seeing in that accident the frustration of his entire life. Looking at his watch, he seemed to look deep into the springs of human existence, and by the light of what he saw there altered his course towards the north and the midnight.... Yes, one s voyage must be made absolutely without companions through ice and black water towards what goal? Here he laid his finger upon the half-hour, and decided that when the minute-hand reached that point he would go, at the same time answering the question put by another of the many voices of consciousness with the reply that there was undoubtedly a goal, but that it would need the most relentless energy to keep anywhere in its direction. Still, still, one goes on, the ticking seconds seemed to assure him, with dignity, with open eyes, with determination not to accept the second-rate, not to be tempted by the unworthy, not to yield, not to compromise. Twenty-five minutes past three were now marked upon the face of the watch. The world, he assured himself, since Katharine Hilbery was now half an hour behind her time, offers no happiness, no rest from struggle, no certainty. In a scheme of things utterly bad from the start the only unpardonable folly is that of hope. Raising his eyes for a moment from the face of his watch, he rested them upon the opposite bank, reflectively and not without a certain wistfulness, as if the sternness of their gaze were still capable of mitigation. Soon a look of the deepest satisfaction filled them, though, for a moment, he did not move. He watched a lady who came rapidly, and yet with a trace of hesitation, down the broad grass-walk towards him. She did not see him. Distance lent her figure an indescribable height, and romance seemed to surround her from the floating of a purple veil which the light air filled and curved from her shoulders. "Here she comes, like a ship in full sail," he said to himself, half remembering some line from a play or poem where the heroine bore down thus with feathers flying and airs saluting her. The greenery and the high presences of the trees surrounded her as if they stood forth at her coming. He rose, and she saw him; her little exclamation proved that she was glad to find him, and then that she blamed herself for being late. "Why did you never tell me? I didn t know there was this," she remarked, alluding to the lake, the broad green space, the vista of trees,
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us say that I saw Cassandra once, twice, perhaps, under these conditions; and then if, as I think certain, the whole thing proves a dream, we tell your mother instantly. Why not tell her now, indeed, under pledge of secrecy?" "Why not? It would be over London in ten minutes, besides, she would never even remotely understand." "Your father, then? This secrecy is detestable it s dishonorable." "My father would understand even less than my mother." "Ah, who could be expected to understand?" Rodney groaned; "but it s from your point of view that we must look at it. It s not only asking too much, it s putting you into a position a position in which I could not endure to see my own sister." "We re not brothers and sisters," she said impatiently, "and if we can t decide, who can? I m not talking nonsense," she proceeded. "I ve done my best to think this out from every point of view, and I ve come to the conclusion that there are risks which have to be taken, though I don t deny that they hurt horribly." "Katharine, you mind? You ll mind too much." "No I shan t," she said stoutly. "I shall mind a good deal, but I m prepared for that; I shall get through it, because you will help me. You ll both help me. In fact, we ll help each other. That s a Christian doctrine, isn t it?" "It sounds more like Paganism to me," Rodney groaned, as he reviewed the situation into which her Christian doctrine was plunging them. And yet he could not deny that a divine relief possessed him, and that the future, instead of wearing a lead-colored mask, now blossomed with a thousand varied gaieties and excitements. He was actually to see Cassandra within a week or perhaps less, and he was more anxious to know the date of her arrival than he could own even to himself. It seemed base to be so anxious to pluck this fruit of Katharine s unexampled generosity and of his own contemptible baseness. And yet, though he used these words automatically, they had now no meaning. He was not debased in his own eyes by what he had done, and as for praising Katharine, were they not partners, conspirators, people bent upon the same quest together, so that to praise the pursuit of a common end as an act of generosity was meaningless. He took her hand and pressed it, not in thanks so much as in an ecstasy of comradeship. "We will help each other,"<|quote|>he said, repeating her words, seeking her eyes in an enthusiasm of friendship. Her eyes were grave but dark with sadness as they rested on him.</|quote|>"He s already gone," she thought, "far away he thinks of me no more." And the fancy came to her that, as they sat side by side, hand in hand, she could hear the earth pouring from above to make a barrier between them, so that, as they sat, they were separated second by second by an impenetrable wall. The process, which affected her as that of being sealed away and for ever from all companionship with the person she cared for most, came to an end at last, and by common consent they unclasped their fingers, Rodney touching hers with his lips, as the curtain parted, and Mrs. Hilbery peered through the opening with her benevolent and sarcastic expression to ask whether Katharine could remember was it Tuesday or Wednesday, and did she dine in Westminster? "Dearest William," she said, pausing, as if she could not resist the pleasure of encroaching for a second upon this wonderful world of love and confidence and romance. "Dearest children," she added, disappearing with an impulsive gesture, as if she forced herself to draw the curtain upon a scene which she refused all temptation to interrupt. CHAPTER XXV At a quarter-past three in the afternoon of the following Saturday Ralph Denham sat on the bank of the lake in Kew Gardens, dividing the dial-plate of his watch into sections with his forefinger. The just and inexorable nature of time itself was reflected in his face. He might have been composing a hymn to the unhasting and unresting march of that divinity. He seemed to greet the lapse of minute after minute with stern acquiescence in the inevitable order. His expression was so severe, so serene, so immobile, that it seemed obvious that for him at least there was a grandeur in the departing hour which no petty irritation on his part was to mar, although the wasting time wasted also high private hopes of his own. His face was no bad index to what went on within him. He was in a condition of mind rather too exalted for the trivialities of daily life. He could not accept the fact that a lady was fifteen minutes late in keeping her appointment without seeing in that accident the frustration of his entire life. Looking at his watch, he seemed to look deep into the springs of human existence, and by the light of what he saw there altered his course towards the north and the midnight.... Yes, one s voyage must be made absolutely without companions through ice and black water towards what goal? Here he laid his finger upon the half-hour, and decided that when the minute-hand reached that point he would
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Night And Day
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“Yes,”
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Grace
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it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington
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the cat; which means that it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will
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much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The
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fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least
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believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than
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world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows is publicity the thing is to give him publicity, and it’s only a question of giving him enough. By the time he has enough for himself, you see, he’ll have too much for every one else--so that we shall ‘up’ in a body and slay him.” The girl’s
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adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows is publicity the thing is to give him publicity, and it’s only a question of giving him enough. By the time he has enough for himself, you see, he’ll have too much for every one else--so that we shall ‘up’ in a body and slay him.” The girl’s eyebrows, in her wondering face, rose to a question. “But if he has meanwhile got the picture?” “We’ll slay him before he gets it!” He revelled in the breadth of his view. “Our own policy must be to _organise_ to that end the inevitable outcry. Organise Bender himself--organise him to scandal.” Hugh had already even pity to spare for their victim. “He won’t know it from a boom.” Though carried along, however, Lady Grace could still measure. “But that will be only if he wants and decides for the picture.” “We must make him then want and decide for it--decide, that is, for ‘ours.’ To save it we must work him up--he’ll in that case want it so indecently much. Then _we_ shall have to want it more!” “Well,” she anxiously felt it her duty to remind him, “you can take a horse to water----!” “Oh, trust me to make him drink!” There appeared a note in this that convinced her. “It’s you, Mr. Crimble, who are ‘splendid’!” “Well, I shall be--with my jolly wire!” And all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,” she added, “one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to say; in addition to which the butler had reappeared, entering from the lobby. “I’ll tell you,” he laughed, “when I come back!” Gotch had his manner of announcement while the visitor was mounting the stairs. “Mr. Breckenridge Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once. “I’ll stay three minutes.” Hugh turned with her, alertly, to the easier issue, signalling hope and cheer from that threshold as he watched her disappear; after which he faced about with as brave a smile and as ready for immediate action as if she had there within kissed her hand to him. Mr. Bender emerged at the same instant, Gotch withdrawing and closing the door behind him; and the former personage, recognising his young friend,
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the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.”<|quote|>“Yes,”</|quote|>she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows
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The Outcry
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"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."
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Georgette
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Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make
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and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It
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be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant.
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show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked
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saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She
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the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their
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me and asked to see my papers." "Wasn't the town nice at night?" "I don't care for Paris." So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. "Well," I said, "I've got to go up-stairs and get off some cables." "Do you really have to go?" "Yes, I've got to get these cables off." "Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?" "No, come on up." He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do it. Nothing will make me do it." "Robert," I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled and blinked. "Did I talk out loud just then?" "Something. But it wasn't clear." "God, what a rotten dream!" "Did the typewriter put you to sleep?" "Guess so. I didn't sleep all last night." "What was the matter?" "Talking," he said. I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Caf Napolitain to have an _ap ritif_ and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard. CHAPTER 3 It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it.
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watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res.<|quote|>"You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick."</|quote|>"You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Hard up, are you?"
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Mr. Hastings
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up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't
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shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm
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a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I
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one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion.
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and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations. I
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your eyes open. You'll see what I mean." The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me. "Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil her husband!" There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear. As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly. "And who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations. I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled. The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I must confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction. The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We were all busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed
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spoken my mind!" "My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!" Miss Howard nodded grimly. "True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:" You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' "She was very angry. Natural! I went on," I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'" "What did she say?" Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace. " Darling Alfred' dearest Alfred' wicked calumnies' wicked lies' wicked woman' "to accuse her" dear husband!' "The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off." "But not now?" "This minute!" For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it. As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me eagerly. "Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?" I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper. "Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her." "Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought." She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean." The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me. "Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil her husband!" There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear. As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly. "And who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations. I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled. The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I must confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction. The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We were all busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed that John's manner was somewhat unusual. He seemed very excited and restless. After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to rest before her efforts in the evening and I challenged Mary Cavendish to a single at tennis. About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called us that we should be late as supper was early that night. We had rather a scramble to get ready in time; and before the meal was over the motor was waiting at the door. The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. Inglethorp's recitation receiving tremendous applause. There were also some tableaux in which Cynthia took part. She did not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux. The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party. "Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror one of our oldest families." Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr. Bauerstein. We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap. We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs." "What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round the small room. "Do you really know what's in them all?" "Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every single person who comes up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first individual who does _not_ say:" What a lot of bottles!' "And I know the next thing you're going to say is: How many people have you poisoned?" '" I pleaded
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the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly. "And who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe." "And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard." He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled. "That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively. John's face hardened. "That is Mrs. Raikes." "The one that Miss Howard" "Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. "Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."<|quote|>"Hard up, are you?"</|quote|>"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wits' end for money." "Couldn't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course" he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil. CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations. I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”
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Crimble
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you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his
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to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from
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saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh
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it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than
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Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel
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depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed was, as we know, nothing if not generally affable; yet if that was just then apparent it was through a shade of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name
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it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John elucidated, “an _ideally_ expensive thing.” Lord Theign appeared to decide after a moment to enter into the pleasant spirit of this; which he did by addressing his younger friend. “Then why shouldn’t I make even the Moretto as expensive as he desires?” “Because you can’t do violence to _that_ master’s natural modesty,” Mr. Bender declared before Lord John had time to speak. And conscious at this moment of the reappearance of his fellow-explorer, he at once supplied a further light. “I guess this gentleman at any rate can tell you.” VIII Hugh Crimble had come back from his voyage of discovery, and it was visible as he stood there flushed and quite radiant that he had caught in his approach Lord Theign’s last inquiry and Mr. Bender’s reply to it. You would have imputed to him on the spot the lively possession of a new idea, the sustaining sense of a message important enough to justify his irruption. He looked from one to the other of the three men, scattered a little by the sight of him, but attached eyes of recognition then to Lord Theign’s, whom he remained an instant longer communicatively smiling at. After which, as you might have gathered, he all confidently plunged, taking up the talk where the others had left it. “I should say, Lord Theign, if you’ll allow me, in regard to what you appear to have been discussing, that it depends a good deal on just that question--of what your Moretto, at any rate, may be presumed or proved to ‘be.’ Let me thank you,” he cheerfully went on, “for your kind leave to go over your treasures.” The personage he so addressed was, as we know, nothing if not generally affable; yet if that was just then apparent it was through a shade of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?” “Thank you, Mr. Bender!” --and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.” “Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.” “You may have held the name dear, my lord,” his young critic answered; “but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.” “Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?” Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?” “What values are _not_ pecuniary?” Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.” “And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them _all_--in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went on, “is that a Mantovano would come higher under the hammer than a Moretto?” “Why, sir,” the young man returned, “there aren’t any, as I’ve just stated, _to_ ‘come.’ I account--or I easily can--for every one of the very small number.” “Then do you consider that you account for this one?” “I believe I shall if you’ll give me time.” “Oh, time!” Mr. Bender impatiently sighed. “But we’ll give you all we’ve got--only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher--if your idea is correct about it--would Lord Theign’s picture come?” Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to _him_, my lord?” Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know _what_ Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off. “Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how _much_ higher?” the American continued to Hugh. “How much higher to _you?_” “Oh, I can size _that_. How much higher as a Mantovano?” Unmistakably--for us at least--our young man was gaining time; he had the instinct of circumspection and delay. “To any one?” “To any one.” “Than as a Moretto?” Hugh continued. It even acted on Lord John’s nerves. “That’s what we’re talking about--really!” But Hugh still took his ease; as if, with his eyes first on Bender and then on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest
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of coolness for the slightly heated familiarity of so plain, or at least so free, a young man in eye-glasses, now for the first time definitely apprehended. “Oh, I’ve scarcely ‘treasures’--but I’ve some things of interest.” Hugh, however, entering the opulent circle, as it were, clearly took account of no breath of a chill. “I think possible, my lord, that you’ve a great treasure--if you’ve really so high a rarity as a splendid Manto-vano.” “A ‘Mantovano’?” You wouldn’t have been sure that his lordship didn’t pronounce the word for the first time in his life. “There have been supposed to be only _seven_ real examples about the world; so that if by an extraordinary chance you find yourself the possessor of a magnificent eighth----” But Lord John had already broken in. “Why, there you _are_, Mr. Bender!” “Oh, Mr. Bender, with whom I’ve made acquaintance,” Hugh returned, “was there as it began to work in me--” “That your Moretto, Lord Theign” --Mr. Bender took their informant up-- “isn’t, after all, a Moretto at all.” And he continued amusedly to Hugh: “It began to work in you, sir, like very strong drink!” “Do I understand you to suggest,” Lord Theign asked of the startling young man, “that my precious picture isn’t genuine?” Well, Hugh knew exactly what he suggested. “As a picture, Lord Theign, as a great portrait, one of the most genuine things in Europe. But it strikes me as probable that from far back--for reasons!--there has been a wrong attribution; that the work has been, in other words, traditionally, obstinately miscalled. It has passed for a Moretto, and at first I quite took it for one; but I suddenly, as I looked and looked and saw and saw, began to doubt, and now I know _why_ I doubted.” Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”<|quote|>“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best--as yet. They made me wonder and wonder--and then light splendidly broke.”</|quote|>His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from _other_ Mantovanos--that I don’t know?” “I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.” “Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?” “Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern--in fact a quite recent growth.” Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!” “Well, I guess it’s enough for _me_,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!” “Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!” The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were _your_ ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?” Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine--collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any--to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.” Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves--it’s another to keep them for other people.” “Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion--I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.” “You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony. “Well, I guess he’s going to
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The Outcry
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"You are wrong,"
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The Secretary
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President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his
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a knife into a French President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. "The knife
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a slice of bread and jam, "whether it wouldn't be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. "The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the
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that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme. "I have often wondered," said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, "whether it wouldn't be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. "The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man's brain is a bomb," he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. "My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand!
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as they talked, and even in this they were typical. Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie. But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water. The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood. And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass. For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme. "I have often wondered," said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, "whether it wouldn't be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. "The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man's brain is a bomb," he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. "My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man's brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe." "I don't want the universe broken up just yet," drawled the Marquis. "I want to do a lot of beastly things before I die. I thought of one yesterday in bed." "No, if the only end of the thing is nothing," said Dr. Bull with his sphinx-like smile, "it hardly seems worth doing." The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes. "Every man knows in his heart," he said, "that nothing is worth doing." There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary
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and set against them the whole energy of England, he would probably escape; certainly not otherwise. They were a balconyful of gentlemen overlooking a bright and busy square; but he felt no more safe with them than if they had been a boatful of armed pirates overlooking an empty sea. There was a second thought that never came to him. It never occurred to him to be spiritually won over to the enemy. Many moderns, inured to a weak worship of intellect and force, might have wavered in their allegiance under this oppression of a great personality. They might have called Sunday the super-man. If any such creature be conceivable, he looked, indeed, somewhat like it, with his earth-shaking abstraction, as of a stone statue walking. He might have been called something above man, with his large plans, which were too obvious to be detected, with his large face, which was too frank to be understood. But this was a kind of modern meanness to which Syme could not sink even in his extreme morbidity. Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it. The men were eating as they talked, and even in this they were typical. Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie. But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water. The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood. And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass. For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme. "I have often wondered," said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, "whether it wouldn't be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. "The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man's brain is a bomb," he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. "My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man's brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe." "I don't want the universe broken up just yet," drawled the Marquis. "I want to do a lot of beastly things before I die. I thought of one yesterday in bed." "No, if the only end of the thing is nothing," said Dr. Bull with his sphinx-like smile, "it hardly seems worth doing." The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes. "Every man knows in his heart," he said, "that nothing is worth doing." There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary said "We are wandering, however, from the point. The only question is how Wednesday is to strike the blow. I take it we should all agree with the original notion of a bomb. As to the actual arrangements, I should suggest that tomorrow morning he should go first of all to" The speech was broken off short under a vast shadow. President Sunday had risen to his feet, seeming to fill the sky above them. "Before we discuss that," he said in a small, quiet voice, "let us go into a private room. I have something very particular to say." Syme stood up before any of the others. The instant of choice had come at last, the pistol was at his head. On the pavement before he could hear the policeman idly stir and stamp, for the morning, though bright, was cold. A barrel-organ in the street suddenly sprang with a jerk into a jovial tune. Syme stood up taut, as if it had been a bugle before the battle. He found himself filled with a supernatural courage that came from nowhere. That jingling music seemed full of the vivacity, the vulgarity, and the irrational valour of the poor, who
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and extraordinary way Sunday had found out that he was a spy. He looked over the edge of the balcony, and saw a policeman, standing abstractedly just beneath, staring at the bright railings and the sunlit trees. Then there fell upon him the great temptation that was to torment him for many days. In the presence of these powerful and repulsive men, who were the princes of anarchy, he had almost forgotten the frail and fanciful figure of the poet Gregory, the mere aesthete of anarchism. He even thought of him now with an old kindness, as if they had played together when children. But he remembered that he was still tied to Gregory by a great promise. He had promised never to do the very thing that he now felt himself almost in the act of doing. He had promised not to jump over that balcony and speak to that policeman. He took his cold hand off the cold stone balustrade. His soul swayed in a vertigo of moral indecision. He had only to snap the thread of a rash vow made to a villainous society, and all his life could be as open and sunny as the square beneath him. He had, on the other hand, only to keep his antiquated honour, and be delivered inch by inch into the power of this great enemy of mankind, whose very intellect was a torture-chamber. Whenever he looked down into the square he saw the comfortable policeman, a pillar of common sense and common order. Whenever he looked back at the breakfast-table he saw the President still quietly studying him with big, unbearable eyes. In all the torrent of his thought there were two thoughts that never crossed his mind. First, it never occurred to him to doubt that the President and his Council could crush him if he continued to stand alone. The place might be public, the project might seem impossible. But Sunday was not the man who would carry himself thus easily without having, somehow or somewhere, set open his iron trap. Either by anonymous poison or sudden street accident, by hypnotism or by fire from hell, Sunday could certainly strike him. If he defied the man he was probably dead, either struck stiff there in his chair or long afterwards as by an innocent ailment. If he called in the police promptly, arrested everyone, told all, and set against them the whole energy of England, he would probably escape; certainly not otherwise. They were a balconyful of gentlemen overlooking a bright and busy square; but he felt no more safe with them than if they had been a boatful of armed pirates overlooking an empty sea. There was a second thought that never came to him. It never occurred to him to be spiritually won over to the enemy. Many moderns, inured to a weak worship of intellect and force, might have wavered in their allegiance under this oppression of a great personality. They might have called Sunday the super-man. If any such creature be conceivable, he looked, indeed, somewhat like it, with his earth-shaking abstraction, as of a stone statue walking. He might have been called something above man, with his large plans, which were too obvious to be detected, with his large face, which was too frank to be understood. But this was a kind of modern meanness to which Syme could not sink even in his extreme morbidity. Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it. The men were eating as they talked, and even in this they were typical. Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie. But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water. The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood. And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass. For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme. "I have often wondered," said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, "whether it wouldn't be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. "The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man's brain is a bomb," he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. "My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man's brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe." "I don't want the universe broken up just yet," drawled the Marquis. "I want to do a lot of beastly things before I die. I thought of one yesterday in bed." "No, if the only end of the thing is nothing," said Dr. Bull with his sphinx-like smile, "it hardly seems worth doing." The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes. "Every man knows in his heart," he said, "that nothing is worth doing." There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary said "We are wandering, however, from the point. The only question is how Wednesday is to strike the blow. I take it we should all agree with the original notion of a bomb. As to the actual arrangements, I should suggest that tomorrow morning he should go first of all to" The speech was broken off short under a vast shadow. President Sunday had risen to his feet, seeming to fill the sky above them. "Before we discuss that," he said in a small, quiet voice, "let us go into a private room. I have something very particular to say." Syme stood up before any of the others. The instant of choice had come at last, the pistol was at his head. On the pavement before he could hear the policeman idly stir and stamp, for the morning, though bright, was cold. A barrel-organ in the street suddenly sprang with a jerk into a jovial tune. Syme stood up taut, as if it had been a bugle before the battle. He found himself filled with a supernatural courage that came from nowhere. That jingling music seemed full of the vivacity, the vulgarity, and the irrational valour of the poor, who in all those unclean streets were all clinging to the decencies and the charities of Christendom. His youthful prank of being a policeman had faded from his mind; he did not think of himself as the representative of the corps of gentlemen turned into fancy constables, or of the old eccentric who lived in the dark room. But he did feel himself as the ambassador of all these common and kindly people in the street, who every day marched into battle to the music of the barrel-organ. And this high pride in being human had lifted him unaccountably to an infinite height above the monstrous men around him. For an instant, at least, he looked down upon all their sprawling eccentricities from the starry pinnacle of the commonplace. He felt towards them all that unconscious and elementary superiority that a brave man feels over powerful beasts or a wise man over powerful errors. He knew that he had neither the intellectual nor the physical strength of President Sunday; but in that moment he minded it no more than the fact that he had not the muscles of a tiger or a horn on his nose like a rhinoceros. All was swallowed up in an ultimate certainty that the President was wrong and that the barrel-organ was right. There clanged in his mind that unanswerable and terrible truism in the song of Roland "Pa ens ont tort et Chr tiens ont droit." which in the old nasal French has the clang and groan of great iron. This liberation of his spirit from the load of his weakness went with a quite clear decision to embrace death. If the people of the barrel-organ could keep their old-world obligations, so could he. This very pride in keeping his word was that he was keeping it to miscreants. It was his last triumph over these lunatics to go down into their dark room and die for something that they could not even understand. The barrel-organ seemed to give the marching tune with the energy and the mingled noises of a whole orchestra; and he could hear deep and rolling, under all the trumpets of the pride of life, the drums of the pride of death. The conspirators were already filing through the open window and into the rooms behind. Syme went last, outwardly calm, but with all his brain and body throbbing with romantic
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understood. But this was a kind of modern meanness to which Syme could not sink even in his extreme morbidity. Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it. The men were eating as they talked, and even in this they were typical. Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie. But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water. The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood. And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass. For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme. "I have often wondered," said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, "whether it wouldn't be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round."<|quote|>"You are wrong,"</|quote|>said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. "The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man's brain is a bomb," he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. "My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man's brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe." "I don't want the universe broken up just yet," drawled the Marquis. "I want to do a lot of beastly things before I die. I thought of one yesterday in bed." "No, if the only end of the thing is nothing," said Dr. Bull with his sphinx-like smile, "it hardly seems worth doing." The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes. "Every man knows in his heart," he said, "that nothing is worth doing." There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary said "We are wandering, however, from the point. The only question is how Wednesday is to strike the blow. I take it we should all agree with the original notion of a bomb. As to the actual arrangements, I should suggest that tomorrow morning he should go first of all to" The speech was broken off short under a vast shadow. President Sunday had risen to his feet, seeming to fill the sky above them. "Before we discuss that,"
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"
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Mrs. Thingummy
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the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other.
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to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so
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you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more
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if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than
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with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I
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to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners. "Turn them away," said the woman, drowsily; "make haste! make haste!" The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed
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first speaker, "when she would have done the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards." "Ay, that she would," rejoined the other; "she had a merry heart. A many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen them ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times." Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait? "Not long, mistress," replied the second woman, looking up into her face. "We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon enough for us all." "Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!" said the matron sternly. "You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?" "Often," answered the first woman. "But will never be again," added the second one; "that is, she'll never wake again but once and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!" "Long or short," said the matron, snappishly, "she won't find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!" She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them. "Who's that?" she cried, in a hollow voice. "Hush, hush!" said one of the women, stooping over her. "Lie down, lie down!" "I'll never lie down again alive!" said the woman, struggling. "I _will_ tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear." She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners. "Turn them away," said the woman, drowsily; "make haste! make haste!" The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted
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them away," said the woman, drowsily; "make haste! make haste!" The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan,<|quote|>"and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!"</|quote|>"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on
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Oliver Twist
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Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:
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No speaker
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must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy,
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I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with
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pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it.
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looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines.
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but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think." She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message. "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events." Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead." The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs. "My father," he said, "is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by
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her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account." "Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think." She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message. "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events." Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead." The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs. "My father," he said, "is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out." Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy. "Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone. "How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite." "In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready," said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary. "Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. "Gentlemen sometimes do not realize--" Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker's Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour
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and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman." "My dear Lucia--" "Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account." "Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think." She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message. "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events." Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead." The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs. "My father," he said, "is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out." Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy. "Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone. "How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite." "In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready," said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary. "Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. "Gentlemen sometimes do not realize--" Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker's Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said: "I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move." "How you do do everything," said Lucy. "Naturally, dear. It is my affair." "But I would like to help you." "No, dear." Charlotte's energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet--there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy. "I want to explain," said Miss Bartlett, "why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you; but I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it." Lucy was bewildered. "If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this." "Mother wouldn't mind I'm sure," said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues. Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato, and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon. Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more. "What does it mean?" she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it
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all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account." "Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think." She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."<|quote|>Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply:</|quote|>"My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message. "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events." Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead." The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs. "My father," he said, "is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out." Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy. "Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone. "How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite." "In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready," said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary. "Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. "Gentlemen sometimes do not realize--" Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker's Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said: "I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move." "How you do do everything," said Lucy. "Naturally, dear. It is my affair." "But I would like to help you." "No, dear." Charlotte's energy! And
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A Room With A View
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While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.
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No speaker
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for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he
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"the whole town would fight for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind
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really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of
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he said, "and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes." Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell
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passed through the quietest part of the town, meeting at most one or two pedestrians, who could give them no hint of the peace or the hostility of the place. Now, however, the windows in the houses began one by one to be lit up, giving a greater sense of habitation and humanity. Dr. Bull turned to the new detective who had led their flight, and permitted himself one of his natural and friendly smiles. "These lights make one feel more cheerful." Inspector Ratcliffe drew his brows together. "There is only one set of lights that make me more cheerful," he said, "and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes." Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He
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cross upon one of its sides. "Where on earth did you get that?" asked the Professor. "I got it where I got the car," answered the Colonel, chuckling, "from my best friend. While our friend here was fighting with the steering wheel, I ran up the front steps of the house and spoke to Renard, who was standing in his own porch, you will remember." 'I suppose,' "I said," 'there's no time to get a lamp.' "He looked up, blinking amiably at the beautiful arched ceiling of his own front hall. From this was suspended, by chains of exquisite ironwork, this lantern, one of the hundred treasures of his treasure house. By sheer force he tore the lamp out of his own ceiling, shattering the painted panels, and bringing down two blue vases with his violence. Then he handed me the iron lantern, and I put it in the car. Was I not right when I said that Dr. Renard was worth knowing?" "You were," said Syme seriously, and hung the heavy lantern over the front. There was a certain allegory of their whole position in the contrast between the modern automobile and its strange ecclesiastical lamp. Hitherto they had passed through the quietest part of the town, meeting at most one or two pedestrians, who could give them no hint of the peace or the hostility of the place. Now, however, the windows in the houses began one by one to be lit up, giving a greater sense of habitation and humanity. Dr. Bull turned to the new detective who had led their flight, and permitted himself one of his natural and friendly smiles. "These lights make one feel more cheerful." Inspector Ratcliffe drew his brows together. "There is only one set of lights that make me more cheerful," he said, "and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes." Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear. "My God!" said the Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them
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the sea. "It is now or never," said Dr. Bull. "I hear horses." "No," corrected the Professor, "a horse." And as they listened, it was evident that the noise, rapidly coming nearer on the rattling stones, was not the noise of the whole cavalcade but that of the one horseman, who had left it far behind the insane Secretary. Syme's family, like most of those who end in the simple life, had once owned a motor, and he knew all about them. He had leapt at once into the chauffeur's seat, and with flushed face was wrenching and tugging at the disused machinery. He bent his strength upon one handle, and then said quite quietly "I am afraid it's no go." As he spoke, there swept round the corner a man rigid on his rushing horse, with the rush and rigidity of an arrow. He had a smile that thrust out his chin as if it were dislocated. He swept alongside of the stationary car, into which its company had crowded, and laid his hand on the front. It was the Secretary, and his mouth went quite straight in the solemnity of triumph. Syme was leaning hard upon the steering wheel, and there was no sound but the rumble of the other pursuers riding into the town. Then there came quite suddenly a scream of scraping iron, and the car leapt forward. It plucked the Secretary clean out of his saddle, as a knife is whipped out of its sheath, trailed him kicking terribly for twenty yards, and left him flung flat upon the road far in front of his frightened horse. As the car took the corner of the street with a splendid curve, they could just see the other anarchists filling the street and raising their fallen leader. "I can't understand why it has grown so dark," said the Professor at last in a low voice. "Going to be a storm, I think," said Dr. Bull. "I say, it's a pity we haven't got a light on this car, if only to see by." "We have," said the Colonel, and from the floor of the car he fished up a heavy, old-fashioned, carved iron lantern with a light inside it. It was obviously an antique, and it would seem as if its original use had been in some way semi-religious, for there was a rude moulding of a cross upon one of its sides. "Where on earth did you get that?" asked the Professor. "I got it where I got the car," answered the Colonel, chuckling, "from my best friend. While our friend here was fighting with the steering wheel, I ran up the front steps of the house and spoke to Renard, who was standing in his own porch, you will remember." 'I suppose,' "I said," 'there's no time to get a lamp.' "He looked up, blinking amiably at the beautiful arched ceiling of his own front hall. From this was suspended, by chains of exquisite ironwork, this lantern, one of the hundred treasures of his treasure house. By sheer force he tore the lamp out of his own ceiling, shattering the painted panels, and bringing down two blue vases with his violence. Then he handed me the iron lantern, and I put it in the car. Was I not right when I said that Dr. Renard was worth knowing?" "You were," said Syme seriously, and hung the heavy lantern over the front. There was a certain allegory of their whole position in the contrast between the modern automobile and its strange ecclesiastical lamp. Hitherto they had passed through the quietest part of the town, meeting at most one or two pedestrians, who could give them no hint of the peace or the hostility of the place. Now, however, the windows in the houses began one by one to be lit up, giving a greater sense of habitation and humanity. Dr. Bull turned to the new detective who had led their flight, and permitted himself one of his natural and friendly smiles. "These lights make one feel more cheerful." Inspector Ratcliffe drew his brows together. "There is only one set of lights that make me more cheerful," he said, "and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes." Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear. "My God!" said the Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver
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his frightened horse. As the car took the corner of the street with a splendid curve, they could just see the other anarchists filling the street and raising their fallen leader. "I can't understand why it has grown so dark," said the Professor at last in a low voice. "Going to be a storm, I think," said Dr. Bull. "I say, it's a pity we haven't got a light on this car, if only to see by." "We have," said the Colonel, and from the floor of the car he fished up a heavy, old-fashioned, carved iron lantern with a light inside it. It was obviously an antique, and it would seem as if its original use had been in some way semi-religious, for there was a rude moulding of a cross upon one of its sides. "Where on earth did you get that?" asked the Professor. "I got it where I got the car," answered the Colonel, chuckling, "from my best friend. While our friend here was fighting with the steering wheel, I ran up the front steps of the house and spoke to Renard, who was standing in his own porch, you will remember." 'I suppose,' "I said," 'there's no time to get a lamp.' "He looked up, blinking amiably at the beautiful arched ceiling of his own front hall. From this was suspended, by chains of exquisite ironwork, this lantern, one of the hundred treasures of his treasure house. By sheer force he tore the lamp out of his own ceiling, shattering the painted panels, and bringing down two blue vases with his violence. Then he handed me the iron lantern, and I put it in the car. Was I not right when I said that Dr. Renard was worth knowing?" "You were," said Syme seriously, and hung the heavy lantern over the front. There was a certain allegory of their whole position in the contrast between the modern automobile and its strange ecclesiastical lamp. Hitherto they had passed through the quietest part of the town, meeting at most one or two pedestrians, who could give them no hint of the peace or the hostility of the place. Now, however, the windows in the houses began one by one to be lit up, giving a greater sense of habitation and humanity. Dr. Bull turned to the new detective who had led their flight, and permitted himself one of his natural and friendly smiles. "These lights make one feel more cheerful." Inspector Ratcliffe drew his brows together. "There is only one set of lights that make me more cheerful," he said, "and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes." Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him. "Oh, this is all raving nonsense!" he cried. "If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see."<|quote|>While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.</|quote|>"What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."
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Allan
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her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew."
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I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with
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got any idea about my goings on?" "Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head." Brenda said, "I don't want him to be unhappy, you know... Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing." "Has she? I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with people when they start walking out. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just
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The other married couple said to each other, "D'you think Marjorie and Allan know about Brenda?" "I'm sure they don't." * * * * * Brenda said to Allan, "Tony's as happy as a sandboy, isn't he?" "Full of beans." "I was getting worried about him... You don't think he's got any idea about my goings on?" "Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head." Brenda said, "I don't want him to be unhappy, you know... Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing." "Has she? I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with people when they start walking out. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just aren't interested." "Oh." * * * * * Later he said to Marjorie, "Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening." "I didn't know you knew." "Oh, I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it." "I couldn't disapprove more of
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were enjoying it." "Just like old times--before the economics began." * * * * * Marjorie said to Jock, "D'you think Tony knows about Mr Beaver?" "Not a thing." "I haven't mentioned it to Allan. D'you suppose he knows?" "I doubt it." "Oh, Jock, how d'you think it'll end?" "She'll get bored with Beaver soon enough." "The trouble is that he doesn't care for her in the least. If he did, it would soon be over... What an ass she is being." "I should say she was managing it unusually well, if you ask me." * * * * * The other married couple said to each other, "D'you think Marjorie and Allan know about Brenda?" "I'm sure they don't." * * * * * Brenda said to Allan, "Tony's as happy as a sandboy, isn't he?" "Full of beans." "I was getting worried about him... You don't think he's got any idea about my goings on?" "Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head." Brenda said, "I don't want him to be unhappy, you know... Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing." "Has she? I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with people when they start walking out. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just aren't interested." "Oh." * * * * * Later he said to Marjorie, "Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening." "I didn't know you knew." "Oh, I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it." "I couldn't disapprove more of the whole thing. Do you know Beaver?" "I've seen him about. Anyway, it's her business and Tony's, not ours." [V] Jock's blonde was called Mrs Rattery. Tony had conceived an idea of her from what he overheard of Polly's gossip and from various fragments of information let fall by Jock. She was a little over thirty. Somewhere in the Cottesmore country there lived a long-legged, slightly discredited Major Rattery, to whom she had once been married. She was an American by origin, now totally denationalized, rich, without property or possessions, except those that would pack in five vast trunks. Jock
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jump an enormous great oxer," he had kept repeating throughout the service. Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hothouses; she helped him choose his buttonhole. Tony was in high spirits at luncheon. Brenda had begun to forget how amusing he could be. Afterwards he changed into other clothes and went with Jock to play golf. They stayed some time at the clubhouse. Tony said, "We've got the hounds meeting at Hetton on Wednesday. Couldn't you stay down till then?" "Must be back. There's going to be a debate on the Pig Scheme." "I wish you'd stay. Look here, why don't you ask that girl down? Everyone goes to-morrow. You could ring her up, couldn't you?" "I _could_." "Would she hate it? She could have Lyonesse--Polly slept there two week-ends running, so it can't be too uncomfortable." "She'd probably love it. I'll ring up and ask her." "Why don't you hunt too? There's a chap called Brinkwell who's got some quite decent hirelings, I believe." "Yes, I might." * * * * * "Jock's staying on. He's having the Shameless Blonde down. You don't mind?" "Me? Of course not." "This _has_ been a jolly week-end." "I thought you were enjoying it." "Just like old times--before the economics began." * * * * * Marjorie said to Jock, "D'you think Tony knows about Mr Beaver?" "Not a thing." "I haven't mentioned it to Allan. D'you suppose he knows?" "I doubt it." "Oh, Jock, how d'you think it'll end?" "She'll get bored with Beaver soon enough." "The trouble is that he doesn't care for her in the least. If he did, it would soon be over... What an ass she is being." "I should say she was managing it unusually well, if you ask me." * * * * * The other married couple said to each other, "D'you think Marjorie and Allan know about Brenda?" "I'm sure they don't." * * * * * Brenda said to Allan, "Tony's as happy as a sandboy, isn't he?" "Full of beans." "I was getting worried about him... You don't think he's got any idea about my goings on?" "Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head." Brenda said, "I don't want him to be unhappy, you know... Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing." "Has she? I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with people when they start walking out. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just aren't interested." "Oh." * * * * * Later he said to Marjorie, "Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening." "I didn't know you knew." "Oh, I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it." "I couldn't disapprove more of the whole thing. Do you know Beaver?" "I've seen him about. Anyway, it's her business and Tony's, not ours." [V] Jock's blonde was called Mrs Rattery. Tony had conceived an idea of her from what he overheard of Polly's gossip and from various fragments of information let fall by Jock. She was a little over thirty. Somewhere in the Cottesmore country there lived a long-legged, slightly discredited Major Rattery, to whom she had once been married. She was an American by origin, now totally denationalized, rich, without property or possessions, except those that would pack in five vast trunks. Jock had had his eye on her last summer at Biarritz and had fallen in with her again in London where she played big bridge, very ably, for six or seven hours a day and changed her hotel, on an average, once every three weeks. Periodically she was liable to bouts of morphine; then she gave up her bridge and remained for several days at a time alone in her hotel suite, refreshed at intervals with glasses of cold milk. She arrived by air on Monday afternoon. It was the first time that a guest had come in this fashion and the household was appreciably excited. Under Jock's direction the boiler man and one of the gardeners pegged out a dust sheet in the park to mark a landing for her and lit a bonfire of damp leaves to show the direction of the wind. The five trunks arrived in the ordinary way by train, with an elderly, irreproachable maid. She brought her own sheets with her in one of the trunks; they were neither silk nor coloured, without lace or ornament of any kind, except small, plain monograms. Tony, Jock and John went out to watch her land. She climbed
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on Wednesday, you know." "Are we giving them a lawner?" "Yes, darling, you know we do every year." "So we do." "You couldn't stay down till then?" "Not possibly, darling. You see if I miss one lecture I get right behind and can't follow the next. Besides, I am not mad keen to see the hounds." "Ben was asking if we'd let John go out." "Oh, he's far too young." "Not to hunt. But I thought he might bring his pony to the meet and ride with them to the first covert. He'd love it so." "Is it quite safe?" "Oh, yes, surely?" "Bless his heart, I wish I could be here to see him." "Do change your mind." "Oh no, that's quite out of the question. Don't make a thing about it, Tony." That was when she first arrived; later everything got better. Jock was there that week-end, also Allan and Marjorie and another married couple whom Tony had known all his life. Brenda had arranged the party for him and he enjoyed it. He and Allan went out with rook rifles and shot rabbits in the twilight; after dinner the four men played billiard fives while one wife watched. "The old boy's happy as a lark," said Brenda to Marjorie. "He's settling down wonderfully to the new r?gime." They came in breathless and rather flushed for whisky and soda. "Tony nearly had one through the window," said Jock. That night Tony slept in Guinevere. "Everything _is_ all right, isn't it?" he said once. "Yes, of course, darling." "I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time. "And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?" "Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdrafts." "Ha, ha." "And how's Thunderclap?" asked Miss Tendril. "I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday," said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. "Please God make there be a good scent. Please God make me see the kill. Please God don't let me do anything wrong. God bless Ben and Thunderclap. Please God make me jump an enormous great oxer," he had kept repeating throughout the service. Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hothouses; she helped him choose his buttonhole. Tony was in high spirits at luncheon. Brenda had begun to forget how amusing he could be. Afterwards he changed into other clothes and went with Jock to play golf. They stayed some time at the clubhouse. Tony said, "We've got the hounds meeting at Hetton on Wednesday. Couldn't you stay down till then?" "Must be back. There's going to be a debate on the Pig Scheme." "I wish you'd stay. Look here, why don't you ask that girl down? Everyone goes to-morrow. You could ring her up, couldn't you?" "I _could_." "Would she hate it? She could have Lyonesse--Polly slept there two week-ends running, so it can't be too uncomfortable." "She'd probably love it. I'll ring up and ask her." "Why don't you hunt too? There's a chap called Brinkwell who's got some quite decent hirelings, I believe." "Yes, I might." * * * * * "Jock's staying on. He's having the Shameless Blonde down. You don't mind?" "Me? Of course not." "This _has_ been a jolly week-end." "I thought you were enjoying it." "Just like old times--before the economics began." * * * * * Marjorie said to Jock, "D'you think Tony knows about Mr Beaver?" "Not a thing." "I haven't mentioned it to Allan. D'you suppose he knows?" "I doubt it." "Oh, Jock, how d'you think it'll end?" "She'll get bored with Beaver soon enough." "The trouble is that he doesn't care for her in the least. If he did, it would soon be over... What an ass she is being." "I should say she was managing it unusually well, if you ask me." * * * * * The other married couple said to each other, "D'you think Marjorie and Allan know about Brenda?" "I'm sure they don't." * * * * * Brenda said to Allan, "Tony's as happy as a sandboy, isn't he?" "Full of beans." "I was getting worried about him... You don't think he's got any idea about my goings on?" "Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head." Brenda said, "I don't want him to be unhappy, you know... Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing." "Has she? I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with people when they start walking out. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just aren't interested." "Oh." * * * * * Later he said to Marjorie, "Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening." "I didn't know you knew." "Oh, I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it." "I couldn't disapprove more of the whole thing. Do you know Beaver?" "I've seen him about. Anyway, it's her business and Tony's, not ours." [V] Jock's blonde was called Mrs Rattery. Tony had conceived an idea of her from what he overheard of Polly's gossip and from various fragments of information let fall by Jock. She was a little over thirty. Somewhere in the Cottesmore country there lived a long-legged, slightly discredited Major Rattery, to whom she had once been married. She was an American by origin, now totally denationalized, rich, without property or possessions, except those that would pack in five vast trunks. Jock had had his eye on her last summer at Biarritz and had fallen in with her again in London where she played big bridge, very ably, for six or seven hours a day and changed her hotel, on an average, once every three weeks. Periodically she was liable to bouts of morphine; then she gave up her bridge and remained for several days at a time alone in her hotel suite, refreshed at intervals with glasses of cold milk. She arrived by air on Monday afternoon. It was the first time that a guest had come in this fashion and the household was appreciably excited. Under Jock's direction the boiler man and one of the gardeners pegged out a dust sheet in the park to mark a landing for her and lit a bonfire of damp leaves to show the direction of the wind. The five trunks arrived in the ordinary way by train, with an elderly, irreproachable maid. She brought her own sheets with her in one of the trunks; they were neither silk nor coloured, without lace or ornament of any kind, except small, plain monograms. Tony, Jock and John went out to watch her land. She climbed out of the cockpit, stretched, unbuttoned the flaps of her leather helmet, and came to meet them. "Forty-two minutes," she said, "not at all bad with the wind against me." She was tall and erect, almost austere in helmet and overalls; not at all as Tony had imagined her. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he had secreted the slightly absurd expectation of a chorus girl, in silk shorts and brassi?re, popping out of an immense beribboned Easter egg with a cry of "Whoopee, boys." Mrs Rattery's greetings were deft and impersonal. "Are you going to hunt on Wednesday?" asked John. "They're meeting here, you know." "I might go out for half the day, if I can find a horse. It'll be the first time this year." "It's my first time too." "We shall both be terribly stiff." She spoke to him exactly as though he were a man of her own age. "You'll have to show me the country." "I expect they'll draw Bruton Wood first. There's a big fox there, daddy and I saw him." * * * * * When they were alone together, Jock said, "It's delightful your coming down. What d'you think of Tony?" "Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Caf? de Paris?" "Yes." "The one you said was in love with that young man?" "Yes." "Funny of her... What's this one's name again?" "Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?" "Is it? I never notice houses much." She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking-room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. "Don't wait up for me," she said. "I shall stay here until it comes out. It often takes several hours." They showed her where to put the lights out and left her to it. Next day Jock said, "Have you got any pigs at the farm?" "Yes." "Would you mind if I went to see them?" "Not in the least--but why?" "And is there a man who looks after them, who will be able to explain about them?" "Yes." "Well, I think I'll spend the morning with him. I've got to make a speech about pigs, fairly soon." They did not see Mrs Rattery until luncheon. Tony assumed she was asleep
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* "Jock's staying on. He's having the Shameless Blonde down. You don't mind?" "Me? Of course not." "This _has_ been a jolly week-end." "I thought you were enjoying it." "Just like old times--before the economics began." * * * * * Marjorie said to Jock, "D'you think Tony knows about Mr Beaver?" "Not a thing." "I haven't mentioned it to Allan. D'you suppose he knows?" "I doubt it." "Oh, Jock, how d'you think it'll end?" "She'll get bored with Beaver soon enough." "The trouble is that he doesn't care for her in the least. If he did, it would soon be over... What an ass she is being." "I should say she was managing it unusually well, if you ask me." * * * * * The other married couple said to each other, "D'you think Marjorie and Allan know about Brenda?" "I'm sure they don't." * * * * * Brenda said to Allan, "Tony's as happy as a sandboy, isn't he?" "Full of beans." "I was getting worried about him... You don't think he's got any idea about my goings on?" "Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head." Brenda said, "I don't want him to be unhappy, you know... Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing." "Has she? I haven't discussed it with her." "How did _you_ hear?"<|quote|>"My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now."</|quote|>"Oh... I thought everyone knew." "That's always the trouble with people when they start walking out. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just aren't interested." "Oh." * * * * * Later he said to Marjorie, "Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening." "I didn't know you knew." "Oh, I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it." "I couldn't disapprove more of the whole thing. Do you know Beaver?" "I've seen him about. Anyway, it's her business and Tony's, not ours." [V] Jock's blonde was called Mrs Rattery. Tony had conceived an idea of her from what he overheard of Polly's gossip and from various fragments of information let fall by Jock. She was a little over thirty. Somewhere in the Cottesmore country there lived a long-legged, slightly discredited Major Rattery, to whom she had once been married. She was an American by origin, now totally denationalized, rich, without property or possessions, except those that would pack in five vast trunks. Jock had had his eye on her last summer at Biarritz and had fallen in with her again in London where she played big bridge, very ably, for six or seven hours a day and changed her hotel, on an average, once every three weeks. Periodically she was liable to bouts of morphine; then she gave up her bridge and remained for several days at a time alone in her hotel suite, refreshed at intervals with glasses of cold milk. She arrived by air on Monday afternoon. It was the first time that a guest had come in this fashion and the household was appreciably excited. Under Jock's direction the boiler man and one of the gardeners pegged out a dust sheet in the park to mark a landing for her and lit a bonfire of damp leaves to show the direction of the wind. The five trunks arrived in the ordinary way by train, with an elderly, irreproachable maid. She brought her own sheets with her in one of the trunks; they were neither silk nor coloured, without lace or ornament of any kind, except small, plain monograms. Tony, Jock and John went out to watch her land. She climbed out of the cockpit, stretched, unbuttoned the flaps of her leather helmet, and came to meet them. "Forty-two minutes," she said, "not at all bad with the wind against me." She was tall and erect, almost austere in helmet and overalls; not at all as Tony had imagined her. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he had secreted the slightly absurd expectation of a chorus girl, in silk shorts and brassi?re, popping out of an immense beribboned Easter egg with a cry of "Whoopee, boys." Mrs Rattery's greetings were deft and impersonal. "Are you going to hunt on Wednesday?" asked John. "They're meeting here, you know." "I might go out for half
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A Handful Of Dust
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“You can’t have our Duchess!”
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Lady Sandgate
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wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with
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before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the
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Lord Theign waived cross-questions. “Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated
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shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?” Lord Theign waived cross-questions. “Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends,
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if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?” Lord Theign waived cross-questions. “Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature,
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one, Lady Sandgate,” Mr. Bender said; “you can generally distinguish a real one from the squeak of two or three mice! But granted mice do affect you, Lord Theign, it will interest me to hear what sort of a trap--by what you say--you propose to set for them.” “You must allow me to measure, myself, Mr. Bender,” his lordship replied, “the importance of a gross freedom publicly used with my absolutely personal proceedings and affairs; to the cause and origin of any definite report of which--in such circles!--I’m afraid I rather wonder if you yourself can’t give me a clue.” It took Mr. Bender a minute to do justice to these stately remarks. “You rather wonder if I’ve talked of how I feel about your detaining in your hands my Beautiful Duchess----?” “Oh, if you’ve already published her as ‘yours’--with your _power_ of publication!” Lord Theign coldly laughed,-- “of course I trace the connection!” Mr. Benders acceptance of responsibility clearly cost him no shade of a pang. “Why, I haven’t for quite a while talked of a blessed other thing--and I’m capable of growing more profane over my _not_ getting her than I guess any one would dare to be if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?” Lord Theign waived cross-questions. “Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature, or in other words the very essence, of my plan of campaign--which is to put the picture at once on view.” He marked his idea with a broad but elegant gesture. “On view as a thing definitely disposed of.” “I say, I say, I say!” cried Lord John, moved by this bold stroke to high admiration. Lady Sandgate’s approval was more qualified. “But on view, dear Theign, how?” “With one of those pushing people in Bond Street.” And then as for the crushing climax of his policy: “As a Mantovano pure and simple.” “But my dear man,” she quavered, “if it _isn’t_ one?” Mr. Bender at once anticipated; the wind had suddenly risen for him and he let out sail. “Lady Sand-gate, it’s going, by all that’s--well, interesting, to _be_ one!” Lord Theign took him up with pleasure. “You seize me? We _treat_ it as one!” Lord John eagerly borrowed the emphasis. “We _treat_ it as one!” Mr. Bender meanwhile fed with an opened appetite on the thought--he even gave it back larger. “As the long-lost Number Eight!” Lord Theign happily seized _him_. “That will be it--to a charm!” “It will make them,” Mr. Bender asked, “madder than anything?” His
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the result of his addressing directly the person so presenting himself. “Why, they tell me that what this means, Lord Theign, is the first growl of an outcry!” The appearance of the most eminent figure in the group might have been held in itself to testify to some such truth; in the sense at least that a certain conscious radiance, a gathered light of battle in his lordship’s aspect would have been explained by his having taken the full measure--an inner success with which he glowed--of some high provocation. He was flushed, but he bore it as the ensign of his house; he was so admirably, vividly dressed, for the morning hour and for his journey, that he shone as with the armour of a knight; and the whole effect of him, from head to foot, with every jerk of his unconcern and every flash of his ease, was to call attention to his being utterly unshaken and knowing perfectly what he was about. It was at this happy pitch that he replied to the prime upsetter of his peace. “I’m afraid I don’t know what anything means to _you_, Mr. Bender--but it’s exactly to find out that I’ve asked you, with our friend John, kindly to meet me here. For a very brief conference, dear lady, by your good leave,” he went on to Lady Sandgate; “at which I’m only too pleased that you yourself should assist. The ‘first growl’ of any outcry, I may mention to you all, affects me no more than the last will----!” “So I’m delighted to gather” --Lady Sandgate took him straight up-- “that you don’t let go your inestimable Cure.” He at first quite stared superior-- “‘Let go’?” --but then treated it with a lighter touch. “Upon my honour I might, you know--that dose of the daily press has made me feel so fit! I arrive at any rate,” he pursued to the others and in particular to Mr. Bender, “I arrive with my decision taken--which I’ve thought may perhaps interest you. If that tuppeny rot _is_ an attempt at an outcry I simply nip it in the bud.” Lord John rejoicingly approved. “Absolutely the only way--with the least self-respect--to treat it!” Lady Sandgate, on the other hand, sounded a sceptical note. “But are you sure it’s so easy, Theign, to hush up a _real_ noise?” “It ain’t what I’d call a real one, Lady Sandgate,” Mr. Bender said; “you can generally distinguish a real one from the squeak of two or three mice! But granted mice do affect you, Lord Theign, it will interest me to hear what sort of a trap--by what you say--you propose to set for them.” “You must allow me to measure, myself, Mr. Bender,” his lordship replied, “the importance of a gross freedom publicly used with my absolutely personal proceedings and affairs; to the cause and origin of any definite report of which--in such circles!--I’m afraid I rather wonder if you yourself can’t give me a clue.” It took Mr. Bender a minute to do justice to these stately remarks. “You rather wonder if I’ve talked of how I feel about your detaining in your hands my Beautiful Duchess----?” “Oh, if you’ve already published her as ‘yours’--with your _power_ of publication!” Lord Theign coldly laughed,-- “of course I trace the connection!” Mr. Benders acceptance of responsibility clearly cost him no shade of a pang. “Why, I haven’t for quite a while talked of a blessed other thing--and I’m capable of growing more profane over my _not_ getting her than I guess any one would dare to be if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?” Lord Theign waived cross-questions. “Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature, or in other words the very essence, of my plan of campaign--which is to put the picture at once on view.” He marked his idea with a broad but elegant gesture. “On view as a thing definitely disposed of.” “I say, I say, I say!” cried Lord John, moved by this bold stroke to high admiration. Lady Sandgate’s approval was more qualified. “But on view, dear Theign, how?” “With one of those pushing people in Bond Street.” And then as for the crushing climax of his policy: “As a Mantovano pure and simple.” “But my dear man,” she quavered, “if it _isn’t_ one?” Mr. Bender at once anticipated; the wind had suddenly risen for him and he let out sail. “Lady Sand-gate, it’s going, by all that’s--well, interesting, to _be_ one!” Lord Theign took him up with pleasure. “You seize me? We _treat_ it as one!” Lord John eagerly borrowed the emphasis. “We _treat_ it as one!” Mr. Bender meanwhile fed with an opened appetite on the thought--he even gave it back larger. “As the long-lost Number Eight!” Lord Theign happily seized _him_. “That will be it--to a charm!” “It will make them,” Mr. Bender asked, “madder than anything?” His patron--if not his client--put it more nobly. “It will markedly affirm my attitude.” “Which will in turn the more markedly create discussion.” “It may create all it will!” “Well, if _you_ don’t mind it, _I_ don’t!” Mr. Bender concluded. But though bathed in this high serenity he was all for the rapid application of it elsewhere. “You’ll put the thing on view right off?” “As soon as the proper arrangement----” “You put off your journey to _make_ it?” Lady Sand-gate at once broke in. Lord Theign bethought himself--with the effect of a gracious confidence in the others. “Not if these friends will act.” “Oh, I guess we’ll _act!_” Mr. Bender declared. “Ah, _won’t_ we though!” Lord John re-echoed. “You understand then I have an interest?” Mr. Bender went on to Lord Theign. His lordship’s irony met it. “I accept that complication--which so much simplifies!” “And yet also have a liberty?” “Where else would be those you’ve taken? The point is,” said Lord Theign, “that _I_ have a show.” It settled Mr. Bender. “Then I’ll _fix_ your show.” He snatched up his hat. “Lord John, come right round!” Lord John had of himself reached the door, which he opened to let the whirlwind tremendously figured by his friend pass out first. Taking leave of the others he gave it even his applause. “The fellow can do anything anywhere!” And he hastily followed. V Lady Sandgate, left alone with Lord Theign, drew the line at their companion’s enthusiasm. “That may be true of Mr. Bender--for it’s dreadful how he bears one down. But I simply find him a terror.” “Well,” said her friend, who seemed disposed not to fatigue the question, “I dare say a terror will help me.” He had other business to which he at once gave himself. “And now, if you please, for that girl.” “I’ll send her to you,” she replied, “if you can’t stay to luncheon.” “I’ve three or four things to do,” he pleaded, “and I lunch with Kitty at one.” She submitted in that case--but disappointedly. “With Berkeley Square then you’ve time. But I confess I don’t quite grasp the so odd inspiration that you’ve set those men to carry out.” He showed surprise and regret, but even greater decision. “Then it needn’t trouble you, dear--it’s enough that I myself go straight.” “Are you so very convinced it’s straight?” --she wouldn’t be a bore to
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say--you propose to set for them.” “You must allow me to measure, myself, Mr. Bender,” his lordship replied, “the importance of a gross freedom publicly used with my absolutely personal proceedings and affairs; to the cause and origin of any definite report of which--in such circles!--I’m afraid I rather wonder if you yourself can’t give me a clue.” It took Mr. Bender a minute to do justice to these stately remarks. “You rather wonder if I’ve talked of how I feel about your detaining in your hands my Beautiful Duchess----?” “Oh, if you’ve already published her as ‘yours’--with your _power_ of publication!” Lord Theign coldly laughed,-- “of course I trace the connection!” Mr. Benders acceptance of responsibility clearly cost him no shade of a pang. “Why, I haven’t for quite a while talked of a blessed other thing--and I’m capable of growing more profane over my _not_ getting her than I guess any one would dare to be if I did.” “Well, you’ll certainly not ‘get’ her, Mr. Bender,” Lady Sandgate, as for reasons of her own, bravely trumpeted; “and even if there were a chance of it don’t you see that your way wouldn’t be publicly to abuse our noble friend?” Mr. Bender but beamed, in reply, upon that personage. “Oh, I guess our noble friend knows I _have_ to talk big about big things. You understand, sir, the scream of the eagle!” “I’ll forgive you,” Lord Theign civilly returned, “all the big talk you like if you’ll now understand _me_. My retort to that hireling pack shall be at once to dispose of a picture.” Mr. Bender rather failed to follow. “But that’s what you wanted to do before.” “Pardon me,” said his lordship-- “I make a difference. It’s what you wanted me to do.” The mystification, however, continued. “And you were _not_--as you seemed then--willing?” Lord Theign waived cross-questions. “Well, I’m willing _now_--that’s all that need concern us. Only, once more and for the last time,” he added with all authority, “you can’t have our Duchess!” “You can’t have our Duchess!” --and Lord John, as before the altar of patriotism, wrapped it in sacrificial sighs.<|quote|>“You can’t have our Duchess!”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate repeated, but with a grace that took the sting from her triumph. And she seemed still all sweet sociability as she added: “I wish he’d tell you too, you dreadful rich thing, that you can’t have anything at all!” Lord Theign, however, in the interest of harmony, deprecated that rigour. “Ah, what then would become of my happy retort?” “And what--as it _is_,” Mr. Bender asked-- “becomes of my unhappy grievance?” “Wouldn’t a really great capture make up to you for that?” “Well, I take more interest in what I want than in what I have--and it depends, don’t you see, on how you measure the size.” Lord John had at once in this connection a bright idea. “Shouldn’t you like to go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature, or in other words the very essence, of my plan of campaign--which is to put the picture at once on view.” He marked his idea with a broad but elegant gesture. “On view as a thing definitely disposed of.” “I say, I say, I say!” cried Lord
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The Outcry
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"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."
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Jem Wimble
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and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say
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Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired
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don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many
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very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily;
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now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic
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the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose
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as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to," said Jem laconically. "We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good
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roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages."<|quote|>"Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in."</|quote|>"Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I
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Don Lavington
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"You re not in love with him?"
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Cassandra Otway
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but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said
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of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as
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any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely
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not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in
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am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some
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t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen." A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically: "You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this
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it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go," said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her. "Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen." A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically: "You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure. "For goodness sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, "don t be rash. Don t let her suspect. Remember, nothing s certain" Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy. Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants room when she was engaged in confidential family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs. "I ve something that I want to say to you in _private_," she said, hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush. "The drawing-room is empty" "But we might meet your mother upon the stairs. We might disturb your father," Mrs. Milvain objected, taking the precaution to speak in a whisper already. But as Katharine s presence was absolutely necessary to the success of the interview, and as Katharine obstinately receded up the kitchen stairs, Mrs. Milvain had no course but to follow her. She glanced furtively about her as she proceeded upstairs, drew her skirts together, and stepped with circumspection past all doors, whether they were open or shut. "Nobody will overhear us?" she murmured, when the comparative sanctuary of the drawing-room had been reached. "I see that I have interrupted you," she added, glancing at the flowers strewn upon the floor. A moment later she inquired, "Was some one sitting with you?" noticing a handkerchief that Cassandra had dropped in her flight. "Cassandra was helping me to put the flowers in water," said Katharine, and she spoke so firmly and clearly that Mrs. Milvain glanced nervously at the main door and then at the curtain which divided the little
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of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude.<|quote|>"You re not in love with him?"</|quote|>"But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen." A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room, was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted. The maid s message had a curious effect upon Katharine. She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said emphatically and even tragically: "You know what that means." Cassandra had understood nothing. "Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated. "Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally. "Probably because she s discovered something," Katharine replied. Cassandra s thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation. "About us?" she inquired. "Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan t let her stay in the kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here." The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure. "For goodness sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, "don t be rash. Don t let her suspect. Remember, nothing s certain" Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy. Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants room when she was engaged in confidential family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious
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Night And Day
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"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."
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Mr. Frank Churchill
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never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without
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ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do
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over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if
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the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little
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of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in
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gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam," (to Mrs. Bates,) "of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is." And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And
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performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again. At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise. "Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?" Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. "It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess. Do not distress her." He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again, "How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?" He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture." "Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam," (to Mrs. Bates,) "of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is." And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?" "Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston." "Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?" "No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in." "Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps." "And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!" "No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can." "Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you." "No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte." "Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it." "Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And" (raising his voice still more) "I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it." "Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!" "What is the matter now?" "To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well," (returning to the room,) "I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing...." "Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing." "Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be sure." 'Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?' "said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of
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wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?" He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture." "Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam," (to Mrs. Bates,) "of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present." He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. "If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour." She played. "What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth." She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it." Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain. She must understand you." "I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning." "But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."<|quote|>"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."</|quote|>"She is not entirely without it, I think." "I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment--_his_ favourite." Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off. "Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!" She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment. "How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here." So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and
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Emma
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said he,
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No speaker
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"This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have
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Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have been signed in London before
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his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his
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Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died
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faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child." "The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too,"
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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 an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child." "The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself" "; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter? A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery to be explained one
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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 an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child." "The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself" "; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter? A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery to be explained one day prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I believe he had." "The will," said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver's tears fell fast. Monks was silent. "The will," said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, "was in the same spirit as the letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the mother, and his conviction only strengthened by approaching death that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then, and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed him with
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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 an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task,"<|quote|>said he,</|quote|>"but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child." "The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself" "; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter? A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a
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Oliver Twist
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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.
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No speaker
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Whaih you think Gawd is?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"We 'll git de secon'-han'
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dat a-way. What you mean? Whaih you think Gawd is?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"We 'll git de secon'-han' dealah to tek ouah things
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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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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,
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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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 seemed to them the centre of all the glory, all the wealth, and all the freedom of the world. New York. It had an alluring sound. Who would know them
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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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 seemed to them the centre of all the glory, all the wealth, and all the freedom of the world. New York. It had an alluring sound. Who would know them there? Who would look down upon them? "It 's a mighty long ways off fu' me to be sta'tin' at dis time o' life." "We want to go a long ways off." "I wonder what pa would think of it if he was here," put in Kitty. "I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could." "Well, den, Joe," said his mother, her voice trembling with emotion at the daring step they were about to take, "you set down an' write a lettah to yo' pa, an' tell him what we goin' to do, an' to-morrer--to-morrer--we 'll
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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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 seemed to them the centre of all the glory, all the wealth, and all the freedom of the world. New York. It had an alluring sound. Who would know them there? Who would look down upon them? "It 's a mighty long ways off fu' me to be sta'tin' at dis time o' life." "We want to go a long ways off." "I wonder what pa would think of it if he was here," put in Kitty. "I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could." "Well, den, Joe," said his mother, her voice trembling with emotion at the daring step they were about to take, "you set down an' write a lettah to yo' pa, an' tell him what we goin' to do, an' to-morrer--to-morrer--we 'll sta't." Something akin to joy came into the boy's heart as he sat down to write the letter. They had taunted him, had they? They had scoffed at him. But he was going where they might never go, and some day he would come back holding his head high and pay them sneer for sneer and jibe for jibe. The same night the commission was given to the furniture dealer who would take charge of their things and sell them when and for what he could. From his window the next morning Maurice Oakley watched the wagon emptying the house. Then he saw Fannie come out and walk about her little garden, followed by her children. He saw her as she wiped her eyes and led the way to the side gate. "Well, they 're gone," he said to his wife. "I wonder where they 're going to live?" "Oh, some of their people will take them in," replied Mrs. Oakley languidly. Despite the fact that his mother carried with her the rest of the money drawn from the bank, Joe had suddenly stepped into the place of the man of the family. He attended to all the details of
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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." The girl stepped back astonished. "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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 seemed to them the centre of all the glory, all the wealth, and all the freedom of the world. New York. It had an alluring sound. Who would know them there? Who would look down upon them? "It 's a mighty long ways off fu' me to be sta'tin' at dis time o' life." "We want to go a long ways off." "I wonder what pa would think of it if he was here," put in Kitty. "I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could." "Well, den, Joe," said his mother, her voice trembling with emotion at the daring step they were about to take, "you set down an' write a lettah to yo' pa, an' tell him what we goin' to do, an' to-morrer--to-morrer--we 'll sta't." Something akin to joy came into the boy's heart as he sat down to write the letter. They had taunted him, had they? They had scoffed at him. But he was going where they might never go, and some day he would come back holding his head high and pay them sneer for sneer and jibe for jibe. The same night the commission was given to the furniture dealer who would take charge of their things and sell them when and for what he could. From his window the next morning Maurice Oakley watched the wagon emptying the house. Then he saw Fannie come out and walk about her little garden, followed by her children. He saw her as she wiped her eyes and led the way to the side gate. "Well, they 're gone," he said to his wife. "I wonder where they 're going to live?" "Oh, some of their people will take them in," replied Mrs. Oakley languidly. Despite the fact that his mother carried with her the rest of the money drawn from the bank, Joe had suddenly stepped into the place of the man of the family. He attended to all the details of their getting away with a promptness that made it seem untrue that he had never been more than thirty miles from his native town. He was eager and excited. As the train drew out of the station, he did not look back upon the place which he hated, but Fannie and her daughter let their eyes linger upon it until the last house, the last chimney, and the last spire faded from their sight, and their tears fell and mingled as they were whirled away toward the unknown. VII IN NEW YORK To the provincial coming to New York for the first time, ignorant and unknown, the city presents a notable mingling of the qualities of cheeriness and gloom. If he have any eye at all for the beautiful, he cannot help experiencing a thrill as he crosses the ferry over the river filled with plying craft and catches the first sight of the spires and buildings of New York. If he have the right stuff in him, a something will take possession of him that will grip him again every time he returns to the scene and will make him long and hunger for the place when he is away from it. Later, the lights in the busy streets will bewilder and entice him. He will feel shy and helpless amid the hurrying crowds. A new emotion will take his heart as the people hasten by him,--a feeling of loneliness, almost of grief, that with all of these souls about him he knows not one and not one of them cares for him. After a while he will find a place and give a sigh of relief as he settles away from the city's sights behind his cosey blinds. It is better here, and the city is cruel and cold and unfeeling. This he will feel, perhaps, for the first half-hour, and then he will be out in it all again. He will be glad to strike elbows with the bustling mob and be happy at their indifference to him, so that he may look at them and study them. After it is all over, after he has passed through the first pangs of strangeness and homesickness, yes, even after he has got beyond the stranger's enthusiasm for the metropolis, the real fever of love for the place will begin to take hold upon him. The subtle, insidious wine
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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?"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 seemed to them the centre of all the glory, all the wealth, and all the freedom of the world. New York. It had an alluring sound. Who would know them there? Who would look down upon them? "It 's a mighty long ways off fu' me to be sta'tin' at dis time o' life." "We want to go a long ways off." "I wonder what pa would think of it if he was here," put in Kitty. "I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could." "Well, den, Joe," said his mother, her voice trembling with emotion at the daring step they were about to take, "you set down an' write a lettah to yo' pa, an' tell him what we goin' to do, an' to-morrer--to-morrer--we 'll sta't." Something akin to joy came into the boy's heart as he sat down to write the letter. They had taunted him, had they? They had scoffed at him. But he was going where they might never go, and some day he would come back holding his head high and pay them sneer for sneer and jibe for jibe. The same night the commission was given to the furniture dealer who would take charge of their things and sell them when and for what he could. From his window the next morning Maurice Oakley watched the wagon emptying the house. Then he saw Fannie come out and walk about her little garden, followed by her children. He saw her as she wiped her eyes and led the way to the side gate. "Well, they 're gone," he said to his wife. "I wonder where they 're going to live?" "Oh, some of their people will take them in," replied Mrs. Oakley languidly. Despite the fact that his mother carried with her the rest of the money drawn from the bank, Joe had suddenly stepped into the place of the man of the family. He attended to all the details of their getting away with a promptness that made it seem untrue that he had never been more than thirty miles from his native town. He was eager and excited. As the train drew out of the station, he did not look back upon the place which he hated, but Fannie and her daughter let their eyes linger upon it until the last house, the last chimney, and the last spire faded from their sight, and their tears fell and mingled as they were whirled away toward the unknown. VII IN NEW YORK To the provincial coming to New York for the first time, ignorant and unknown, the city presents a notable mingling of the qualities of cheeriness and gloom. If he have any eye at all for the beautiful, he cannot help experiencing a thrill as he crosses the ferry over the river filled with plying craft and catches the first sight of the spires and buildings of New York. If he have the right stuff in him, a something will take possession
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The Sport Of The Gods
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“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”
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Theign
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wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took
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it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took her choice of ignoring the
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its business.” To which he added with more reproach: “It’s enough to have been dished by Grace--without _your_ falling away!” Sadly and sweetly she defended herself. “It’s only my great affection--and all that these years have been for us: _they_ it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took her choice of ignoring the point of this. “Your surrenders to Kitty are your own affair--but are you sure you can really bear to see Grace?” “I seem expected indeed to bear much,” he said with more and more of his parental bitterness, “but I
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‘em?” “You must have an immense array,” she sighed, “to fly so in the face of Opinion!” “‘Opinion’?” he commented-- “I fly in its face? Why, the vulgar thing, as I’m taking my quiet walk, flies in mine! I give it a whack with my umbrella and send it about its business.” To which he added with more reproach: “It’s enough to have been dished by Grace--without _your_ falling away!” Sadly and sweetly she defended herself. “It’s only my great affection--and all that these years have been for us: _they_ it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took her choice of ignoring the point of this. “Your surrenders to Kitty are your own affair--but are you sure you can really bear to see Grace?” “I seem expected indeed to bear much,” he said with more and more of his parental bitterness, “but I don’t know that I’m yet in a funk before my child. Doesn’t she _want_ to see me, with any contrition, after the trick she has played me?” And then as his companion’s answer failed: “In spite of which trick you suggest that I should leave the country with no sign
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to do,” he pleaded, “and I lunch with Kitty at one.” She submitted in that case--but disappointedly. “With Berkeley Square then you’ve time. But I confess I don’t quite grasp the so odd inspiration that you’ve set those men to carry out.” He showed surprise and regret, but even greater decision. “Then it needn’t trouble you, dear--it’s enough that I myself go straight.” “Are you so very convinced it’s straight?” --she wouldn’t be a bore to him, but she couldn’t not be a blessing. “What in the world else is it,” he asked, “when, having good reasons, one acts on ‘em?” “You must have an immense array,” she sighed, “to fly so in the face of Opinion!” “‘Opinion’?” he commented-- “I fly in its face? Why, the vulgar thing, as I’m taking my quiet walk, flies in mine! I give it a whack with my umbrella and send it about its business.” To which he added with more reproach: “It’s enough to have been dished by Grace--without _your_ falling away!” Sadly and sweetly she defended herself. “It’s only my great affection--and all that these years have been for us: _they_ it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took her choice of ignoring the point of this. “Your surrenders to Kitty are your own affair--but are you sure you can really bear to see Grace?” “I seem expected indeed to bear much,” he said with more and more of his parental bitterness, “but I don’t know that I’m yet in a funk before my child. Doesn’t she _want_ to see me, with any contrition, after the trick she has played me?” And then as his companion’s answer failed: “In spite of which trick you suggest that I should leave the country with no sign of her explaining--?” His hostess raised her head. “She does want to see you, I know; but you must recall the sequel to that bad hour at Dedborough--when it was you who declined to see _her_.” “Before she left the house with you, the next day, for this?” --he was entirely reminiscent. “What I recall is that even if I had condoned--that evening--her deception of _me_ in my folly, I still loathed, for my friend’s sake, her practical joke on poor John.” Lady Sandgate indulged in the shrug conciliatory. “It was your very complaint that your own appeal to her
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interest?” Mr. Bender went on to Lord Theign. His lordship’s irony met it. “I accept that complication--which so much simplifies!” “And yet also have a liberty?” “Where else would be those you’ve taken? The point is,” said Lord Theign, “that _I_ have a show.” It settled Mr. Bender. “Then I’ll _fix_ your show.” He snatched up his hat. “Lord John, come right round!” Lord John had of himself reached the door, which he opened to let the whirlwind tremendously figured by his friend pass out first. Taking leave of the others he gave it even his applause. “The fellow can do anything anywhere!” And he hastily followed. V Lady Sandgate, left alone with Lord Theign, drew the line at their companion’s enthusiasm. “That may be true of Mr. Bender--for it’s dreadful how he bears one down. But I simply find him a terror.” “Well,” said her friend, who seemed disposed not to fatigue the question, “I dare say a terror will help me.” He had other business to which he at once gave himself. “And now, if you please, for that girl.” “I’ll send her to you,” she replied, “if you can’t stay to luncheon.” “I’ve three or four things to do,” he pleaded, “and I lunch with Kitty at one.” She submitted in that case--but disappointedly. “With Berkeley Square then you’ve time. But I confess I don’t quite grasp the so odd inspiration that you’ve set those men to carry out.” He showed surprise and regret, but even greater decision. “Then it needn’t trouble you, dear--it’s enough that I myself go straight.” “Are you so very convinced it’s straight?” --she wouldn’t be a bore to him, but she couldn’t not be a blessing. “What in the world else is it,” he asked, “when, having good reasons, one acts on ‘em?” “You must have an immense array,” she sighed, “to fly so in the face of Opinion!” “‘Opinion’?” he commented-- “I fly in its face? Why, the vulgar thing, as I’m taking my quiet walk, flies in mine! I give it a whack with my umbrella and send it about its business.” To which he added with more reproach: “It’s enough to have been dished by Grace--without _your_ falling away!” Sadly and sweetly she defended herself. “It’s only my great affection--and all that these years have been for us: _they_ it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took her choice of ignoring the point of this. “Your surrenders to Kitty are your own affair--but are you sure you can really bear to see Grace?” “I seem expected indeed to bear much,” he said with more and more of his parental bitterness, “but I don’t know that I’m yet in a funk before my child. Doesn’t she _want_ to see me, with any contrition, after the trick she has played me?” And then as his companion’s answer failed: “In spite of which trick you suggest that I should leave the country with no sign of her explaining--?” His hostess raised her head. “She does want to see you, I know; but you must recall the sequel to that bad hour at Dedborough--when it was you who declined to see _her_.” “Before she left the house with you, the next day, for this?” --he was entirely reminiscent. “What I recall is that even if I had condoned--that evening--her deception of _me_ in my folly, I still loathed, for my friend’s sake, her practical joke on poor John.” Lady Sandgate indulged in the shrug conciliatory. “It was your very complaint that your own appeal to her _became_ an appeal from herself.” “Yes,” he returned, so well he remembered, “she was about as civil to me then--picking a quarrel with me on such a trumped-up ground!--as that devil of a fellow in the newspaper; the taste of whose elegant remarks, for that matter, she must now altogether enjoy!” His good friend showily balanced and might have been about to reply with weight; but what she in fact brought out was only: “I see you’re right about it: I must let her speak for herself.” “That I shall greatly prefer to her speaking--as she did so extraordinarily, out of the blue, at Dedborough, upon my honour--for the wonderful friends she picks up: the picture-man introduced by her (what was his name?) who regularly ‘cheeked’ me, as I suppose he’d call it, in my own house, and whom I hope, by the way, that under this roof she’s not able to be quite so thick with!” If Lady Sandgate winced at that vain dream she managed not to betray it, and she had, in any embarrassment on this matter, the support, as we know, of her own tried policy. “She leads her life under this roof very much as
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go back there and take the measure yourself?” Mr. Bender considered him as through narrowed eyelids. “Look again at that tottering Moretto?” “Well, its size--as you say--isn’t in _any_ light a negligible quantity.” “You mean that--big as it is--it hasn’t yet stopped growing?” The question, however, as he immediately showed, resided in what Lord Theign himself meant “It’s more to the purpose,” he said to Mr. Bender, “that I should mention to you the leading feature, or in other words the very essence, of my plan of campaign--which is to put the picture at once on view.” He marked his idea with a broad but elegant gesture. “On view as a thing definitely disposed of.” “I say, I say, I say!” cried Lord John, moved by this bold stroke to high admiration. Lady Sandgate’s approval was more qualified. “But on view, dear Theign, how?” “With one of those pushing people in Bond Street.” And then as for the crushing climax of his policy: “As a Mantovano pure and simple.” “But my dear man,” she quavered, “if it _isn’t_ one?” Mr. Bender at once anticipated; the wind had suddenly risen for him and he let out sail. “Lady Sand-gate, it’s going, by all that’s--well, interesting, to _be_ one!” Lord Theign took him up with pleasure. “You seize me? We _treat_ it as one!” Lord John eagerly borrowed the emphasis. “We _treat_ it as one!” Mr. Bender meanwhile fed with an opened appetite on the thought--he even gave it back larger. “As the long-lost Number Eight!” Lord Theign happily seized _him_. “That will be it--to a charm!” “It will make them,” Mr. Bender asked, “madder than anything?” His patron--if not his client--put it more nobly. “It will markedly affirm my attitude.” “Which will in turn the more markedly create discussion.” “It may create all it will!” “Well, if _you_ don’t mind it, _I_ don’t!” Mr. Bender concluded. But though bathed in this high serenity he was all for the rapid application of it elsewhere. “You’ll put the thing on view right off?” “As soon as the proper arrangement----” “You put off your journey to _make_ it?” Lady Sand-gate at once broke in. Lord Theign bethought himself--with the effect of a gracious confidence in the others. “Not if these friends will act.” “Oh, I guess we’ll _act!_” Mr. Bender declared. “Ah, _won’t_ we though!” Lord John re-echoed. “You understand then I have an interest?” Mr. Bender went on to Lord Theign. His lordship’s irony met it. “I accept that complication--which so much simplifies!” “And yet also have a liberty?” “Where else would be those you’ve taken? The point is,” said Lord Theign, “that _I_ have a show.” It settled Mr. Bender. “Then I’ll _fix_ your show.” He snatched up his hat. “Lord John, come right round!” Lord John had of himself reached the door, which he opened to let the whirlwind tremendously figured by his friend pass out first. Taking leave of the others he gave it even his applause. “The fellow can do anything anywhere!” And he hastily followed. V Lady Sandgate, left alone with Lord Theign, drew the line at their companion’s enthusiasm. “That may be true of Mr. Bender--for it’s dreadful how he bears one down. But I simply find him a terror.” “Well,” said her friend, who seemed disposed not to fatigue the question, “I dare say a terror will help me.” He had other business to which he at once gave himself. “And now, if you please, for that girl.” “I’ll send her to you,” she replied, “if you can’t stay to luncheon.” “I’ve three or four things to do,” he pleaded, “and I lunch with Kitty at one.” She submitted in that case--but disappointedly. “With Berkeley Square then you’ve time. But I confess I don’t quite grasp the so odd inspiration that you’ve set those men to carry out.” He showed surprise and regret, but even greater decision. “Then it needn’t trouble you, dear--it’s enough that I myself go straight.” “Are you so very convinced it’s straight?” --she wouldn’t be a bore to him, but she couldn’t not be a blessing. “What in the world else is it,” he asked, “when, having good reasons, one acts on ‘em?” “You must have an immense array,” she sighed, “to fly so in the face of Opinion!” “‘Opinion’?” he commented-- “I fly in its face? Why, the vulgar thing, as I’m taking my quiet walk, flies in mine! I give it a whack with my umbrella and send it about its business.” To which he added with more reproach: “It’s enough to have been dished by Grace--without _your_ falling away!” Sadly and sweetly she defended herself. “It’s only my great affection--and all that these years have been for us: _they_ it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took her choice of ignoring the point of this. “Your surrenders to Kitty are your own affair--but are you sure you can really bear to see Grace?” “I seem expected indeed to bear much,” he said with more and more of his parental bitterness, “but I don’t know that I’m yet in a funk before my child. Doesn’t she _want_ to see me, with any contrition, after the trick she has played me?” And then as his companion’s answer failed: “In spite of which trick you suggest that I should leave the country with no sign of her explaining--?” His hostess raised her head. “She does want to see you, I know; but you must recall the sequel to that bad hour at Dedborough--when it was you who declined to see _her_.” “Before she left the house with you, the next day, for this?” --he was entirely reminiscent. “What I recall is that even if I had condoned--that evening--her deception of _me_ in my folly, I still loathed, for my friend’s sake, her practical joke on poor John.” Lady Sandgate indulged in the shrug conciliatory. “It was your very complaint that your own appeal to her _became_ an appeal from herself.” “Yes,” he returned, so well he remembered, “she was about as civil to me then--picking a quarrel with me on such a trumped-up ground!--as that devil of a fellow in the newspaper; the taste of whose elegant remarks, for that matter, she must now altogether enjoy!” His good friend showily balanced and might have been about to reply with weight; but what she in fact brought out was only: “I see you’re right about it: I must let her speak for herself.” “That I shall greatly prefer to her speaking--as she did so extraordinarily, out of the blue, at Dedborough, upon my honour--for the wonderful friends she picks up: the picture-man introduced by her (what was his name?) who regularly ‘cheeked’ me, as I suppose he’d call it, in my own house, and whom I hope, by the way, that under this roof she’s not able to be quite so thick with!” If Lady Sandgate winced at that vain dream she managed not to betray it, and she had, in any embarrassment on this matter, the support, as we know, of her own tried policy. “She leads her life under this roof very much as under yours; and she’s not of an age, remember, for me to pretend either to watch her movements or to control her contacts.” Leaving him however thus to perform his pleasure the charming woman had before she went an abrupt change of tone. “Whatever your relations with others, dear friend, don’t forget that _I’m_ still here.” Lord Theign accepted the reminder, though, the circumstances being such, it scarce moved him to ecstasy. “That you’re here, thank heaven, is of course a comfort--or would be if you understood.” “Ah,” she submissively sighed, “if I don’t always ‘understand’ a spirit so much higher than mine and a situation so much more complicated, certainly, I at least always defer, I at least always--well, what can I say but worship?” And then as he remained not other than finely passive, “The old altar, Theign,” she went on-- “and a spark of the old fire!” He had not looked at her on this--it was as if he shrank, with his preoccupations, from a tender passage; but he let her take his left hand. “So I feel!” he was, however, kind enough to answer. “Do feel!” she returned with much concentration. She raised the hand to her pressed lips, dropped it and with a rich “Good-bye!” reached the threshold of the other room. “May I smoke?” he asked before she had disappeared. “Dear, yes!” He had meanwhile taken out his cigarette case and was looking about for a match. But something else occurred to him. “You must come to Victoria.” “Rather!” she said with intensity; and with that she passed away. VI Left alone he had a moment’s meditation where he stood; it found issue in an articulate “Poor dear thing!” --an exclamation marked at once with patience and impatience, with resignation and ridicule. After which, waiting for his daughter, Lord Theign slowly and absently roamed, finding matches at last and lighting his cigarette--all with an air of concern that had settled on him more heavily from the moment of his finding himself alone. His luxury of gloom--if gloom it was--dropped, however, on his taking heed of Lady Grace, who, arriving on the scene through the other room, had had just time to stand and watch him in silence. “Oh!” he jerked out at sight of her--which she had to content herself with as a parental greeting after separation, his next words doing little to qualify
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would be those you’ve taken? The point is,” said Lord Theign, “that _I_ have a show.” It settled Mr. Bender. “Then I’ll _fix_ your show.” He snatched up his hat. “Lord John, come right round!” Lord John had of himself reached the door, which he opened to let the whirlwind tremendously figured by his friend pass out first. Taking leave of the others he gave it even his applause. “The fellow can do anything anywhere!” And he hastily followed. V Lady Sandgate, left alone with Lord Theign, drew the line at their companion’s enthusiasm. “That may be true of Mr. Bender--for it’s dreadful how he bears one down. But I simply find him a terror.” “Well,” said her friend, who seemed disposed not to fatigue the question, “I dare say a terror will help me.” He had other business to which he at once gave himself. “And now, if you please, for that girl.” “I’ll send her to you,” she replied, “if you can’t stay to luncheon.” “I’ve three or four things to do,” he pleaded, “and I lunch with Kitty at one.” She submitted in that case--but disappointedly. “With Berkeley Square then you’ve time. But I confess I don’t quite grasp the so odd inspiration that you’ve set those men to carry out.” He showed surprise and regret, but even greater decision. “Then it needn’t trouble you, dear--it’s enough that I myself go straight.” “Are you so very convinced it’s straight?” --she wouldn’t be a bore to him, but she couldn’t not be a blessing. “What in the world else is it,” he asked, “when, having good reasons, one acts on ‘em?” “You must have an immense array,” she sighed, “to fly so in the face of Opinion!” “‘Opinion’?” he commented-- “I fly in its face? Why, the vulgar thing, as I’m taking my quiet walk, flies in mine! I give it a whack with my umbrella and send it about its business.” To which he added with more reproach: “It’s enough to have been dished by Grace--without _your_ falling away!” Sadly and sweetly she defended herself. “It’s only my great affection--and all that these years have been for us: _they_ it is that make me wish you weren’t so proud.”<|quote|>“I’ve a perfect sense, my dear, of what these years have been for us--a very charming matter. But ‘proud’ is it you find me of the daughter who does her best to ruin me, or of the one who does her best to humiliate?”</|quote|>Lady Sandgate, not undiscernibly, took her choice of ignoring the point of this. “Your surrenders to Kitty are your own affair--but are you sure you can really bear to see Grace?” “I seem expected indeed to bear much,” he said with more and more of his parental bitterness, “but I don’t know that I’m yet in a funk before my child. Doesn’t she _want_ to see me, with any contrition, after the trick she has played me?” And then as his companion’s answer failed: “In spite of which trick you suggest that I should leave the country with no sign of her explaining--?” His hostess raised her head. “She does want to see you, I know; but you must recall the sequel to that bad hour at Dedborough--when it was you who declined to see _her_.” “Before she left the house with you, the next day, for this?” --he was entirely reminiscent. “What I recall is that even if I had condoned--that evening--her deception of _me_ in my folly, I still loathed, for my friend’s sake, her practical joke on poor John.” Lady Sandgate indulged in the shrug conciliatory. “It was your very complaint that your own appeal to her _became_ an appeal from herself.” “Yes,” he returned, so well he remembered, “she was about as civil to me then--picking a quarrel with me on such a trumped-up ground!--as that devil of a fellow in the newspaper; the taste of whose elegant remarks, for that matter, she must now altogether enjoy!” His good friend showily balanced and might have been about to reply with weight; but what she in fact brought out was only: “I see you’re right about it: I must let her speak for herself.” “That I shall greatly prefer to her speaking--as she did so extraordinarily, out of the blue, at Dedborough, upon my honour--for the wonderful friends she picks up: the picture-man introduced by her (what was his name?) who regularly ‘cheeked’ me, as I suppose he’d call it, in my own house, and whom I hope, by the way, that under this roof she’s not able to be quite so thick with!” If Lady Sandgate winced at that vain dream she managed not to betray it, and she had, in any embarrassment on this matter, the support, as we know, of her own tried policy. “She leads her life under this roof very much as under yours; and she’s not of an age, remember, for me to pretend either to watch her movements or to control her contacts.” Leaving him however thus to perform his pleasure the charming woman had before she went an abrupt change of tone. “Whatever your relations with others, dear friend, don’t forget that _I’m_ still here.” Lord Theign accepted the reminder, though, the circumstances being such, it scarce moved him to ecstasy. “That you’re here, thank heaven, is of course a comfort--or would be if you understood.” “Ah,” she submissively sighed, “if I don’t always ‘understand’ a spirit so much higher than mine and a situation so much more complicated, certainly, I at least always defer, I at least always--well, what can I say but worship?” And then as he remained not other than finely passive, “The old altar, Theign,” she went on-- “and a spark of the old fire!” He had not looked at her on this--it was as if he shrank, with his preoccupations, from a tender passage; but he let
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The Outcry
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"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"
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Monks
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cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with
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infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had
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asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll
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bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly
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old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward. "Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that
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which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. "So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here!" He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman. "Now," he said, "gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear your story." The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. "When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward. "Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. "There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that." "And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over,
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to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold," said the woman; "and I'll tell you all I know. Not before." "Five-and-twenty pounds!" exclaimed Monks, drawing back. "I spoke as plainly as I could," replied Mrs. Bumble. "It's not a large sum, either." "Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's told!" cried Monks impatiently; "and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more!" "Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in course of time," answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. "As to lying dead, there are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!" "What if I pay it for nothing?" asked Monks, hesitating. "You can easily take it away again," replied the matron. "I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected." "Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither," submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear: "_I_ am here, my dear. And besides," said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say; but he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I'm once roused. I only want a little rousing; that's all." As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he _did_ want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose. "You are a fool," said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; "and had better hold your tongue." "He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a lower tone," said Monks, grimly. "So! He's your husband, eh?" "He my husband!" tittered the matron, parrying the question. "I thought as much, when you came in," rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. "So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here!" He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman. "Now," he said, "gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear your story." The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. "When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward. "Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. "There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that." "And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?" "You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I answer or not is another question." "Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. "Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron. "It is," replied Monks. "The other question?" "What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?" "Never," rejoined Monks; "nor against me either. See here! But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush." With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation. "Look down," said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. "Don't fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game." Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course. "If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?" said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well. "Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides," replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought. Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which
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dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I'm once roused. I only want a little rousing; that's all." As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he _did_ want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose. "You are a fool," said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; "and had better hold your tongue." "He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a lower tone," said Monks, grimly. "So! He's your husband, eh?" "He my husband!" tittered the matron, parrying the question. "I thought as much, when you came in," rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. "So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here!" He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman. "Now," he said, "gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear your story." The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. "When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness;<|quote|>"did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?"</|quote|>"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward. "Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. "There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that." "And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to
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Oliver Twist
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"I think not, thank you,"
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Mr. Sherlock Holmes
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about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes,"
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you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are
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one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at
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to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.
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knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal
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cat, and he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope s end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary." "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week." "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour." "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often
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had always two prize-fighters, besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him." "One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that, and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his sons on each side of him. I d have come through and taken my chance with the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night, though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I came away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred; so I scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had robbed and befooled." "We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat and dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a day s work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto s chemical laboratory. I came at once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto s supper-hour. It seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope s end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary." "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week." "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour." "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe," Schade dass die Natur nur _einen_ Mensch aus Dir schuf, Denn zum w rdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff. "By the way, _ propos_ of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour of having caught one fish in his great haul." "The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?" "For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.
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that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably.<|quote|>"I think not, thank you,"</|quote|>my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you
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The Sign Of The Four
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"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."
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Brett Ashley
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finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting
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talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down
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shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he
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me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my
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of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There,
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"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 cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and
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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 cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get
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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 cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all."<|quote|>"Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like."</|quote|>"It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk?
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."
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Jem Wimble
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"What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with
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this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one
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seem to mind it so very much." "What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had
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before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin. "But he don't seem to mind it so very much." "What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his
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their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin. "But he don't seem to mind it so very much." "What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it
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them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons. "You won't want them," he said, with an ugly grin; "we'll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work." Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head. "Oh, all right," growled Jem, with a menacing look. "Yes, it's all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don't you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward." "I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; "but never mind, I can wait." They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin. "But he don't seem to mind it so very much." "What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me," grumbled Jem, sitting up. "What's the matter?" "I don't know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and--Oh! Ngati!" His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun. "But there arn't no powder and--Yes, there is." Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder. "What do you mean, Ngati?" whispered Don hastily. "Go!" was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the Maori had partly comprehended his words that evening, had thought out the full meaning, and then crept silently to the convicts' den, and secured the arms. Don rose excitedly to his feet. "The time has come, Jem," he whispered. "Yes, and I dursen't shout hooroar!" Ngati was already outside, waiting in the starlight; and as Don stepped out quickly with his heart beating and a sense of suffocation at the throat, he could just
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arm. "I'd give anything to be able to understand what you say, Ngati." The chief smiled, as if he quite comprehended; and grasped Don's hand with a friendly grip, offering the other to Jem. "It's all right, old boy," said the latter. "We can't understand each other's lingo, but we know each other's hearts. We've got to wait a bit and see." A week passed rapidly away, during which, in his rougher moods, Mike treated his prisoners as if they were slaves, calling upon Ngati to perform the most menial offices for the little camp, all of which were patiently performed after an appealing look at Don, who for the sake of gaining time gave up in every way. Jem grumbled, but he did what he was told, for the slightest appearance of resistance was met by a threatening movement with the muskets, which never left the men's hands. They were fairly supplied with food; fish from the streams and from a good-sized lake, Ngati proving himself to be an adept at capturing the large eels, and at discovering fresh supplies of fruit and roots. But in a quiet way, as he watched his English companions like a dog, he always seemed to comprehend their wishes, and to be waiting the time when they should call upon him to fly at their tyrants and then help them to escape. "Didn't know I was coming out to look after you, did you, young Don?" said Mike one evening. "King sent me out o' purpose. Told one of the judges to send me out here, and here I am; and I've found you, and I ought to take you home, but I won't. You always liked furrin countries, and I'm going to keep you here." "What for?" said Don. "To make you do for me what I used to do for you. I was your sarvant; now you're mine. Ups and downs in life we see. Now you're down and I'm up; and what d'yer think o' that, Jem Wimble?" "Think as you was transported, and that you've took to the bush." "Oh, do you?" said Mike, grinning. "Well, never mind; I'm here, and you're there, and you've got to make the best of it." To make the best of it was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons. "You won't want them," he said, with an ugly grin; "we'll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work." Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head. "Oh, all right," growled Jem, with a menacing look. "Yes, it's all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don't you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward." "I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; "but never mind, I can wait." They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin. "But he don't seem to mind it so very much." "What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me," grumbled Jem, sitting up. "What's the matter?" "I don't know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and--Oh! Ngati!" His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun. "But there arn't no powder and--Yes, there is." Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder. "What do you mean, Ngati?" whispered Don hastily. "Go!" was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the Maori had partly comprehended his words that evening, had thought out the full meaning, and then crept silently to the convicts' den, and secured the arms. Don rose excitedly to his feet. "The time has come, Jem," he whispered. "Yes, and I dursen't shout hooroar!" Ngati was already outside, waiting in the starlight; and as Don stepped out quickly with his heart beating and a sense of suffocation at the throat, he could just make out that the Maori held the third musket, and had also three spears under his arm. He handed one of the latter to each, and then stood listening for a few moments with his head bent in the direction of the convicts' resting-place. The steam jet hissed, and the vapour rose like a dim spectral form; the water gurgled and splashed faintly, but there was no other sound, and, going softly in the direction of the opening, Ngati led the way. "We must leave it to him, Jem, and go where he takes us," whispered Don. "Can't do better," whispered back Jem. "Wait just a moment till I get this strap o' the gun over my shoulder. It's awkward to carry both gun and spear." "Wait till we get farther away, Jem." _Crash_! A flash of fire, and a report which echoed like thunder from the face of the rocks. Jem, in passing the sling of the musket over his head, had let it fall upon the stones with disastrous effect. "Run, Mas' Don; never mind me." "Are you hurt?" "Dunno." Jem was in a stooping posture as he spoke, but he rose directly, as there was a rush heard in the direction of the convicts' lair, and catching Don's hand they ran off stealthily after Ngati, who had returned, and then led the way once more. Not a word was spoken, and after the first rush and the scramble and panting of men making for the rocks, all was very still. Ngati led on, passing in and out among tree and bush, and mass of rock, as if his eyes were quite accustomed to the darkness, while, big as he was, his bare feet made no more sound than the paws of a cat. Both Don and Jem followed as silently as they could, but they could not help catching against the various obstacles, and making noises which produced a warning "Hssh!" from their leader. As they passed on they listened intently for sounds of pursuit, but for awhile there were none; the fact being that at the sound of the shot the convicts believed that they were attacked, and rushing out, they made for the mountain. But as no further shots were heard, they grew more bold, and, after waiting listening for awhile, they stole back to the shed that should have been occupied by Don and
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was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons. "You won't want them," he said, with an ugly grin; "we'll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work." Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head. "Oh, all right," growled Jem, with a menacing look. "Yes, it's all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don't you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward." "I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; "but never mind, I can wait." They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject--how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape. There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners. "If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem," said Don one evening for the hundredth time. "Yes, and I'd precious soon have them," replied Jem; "only they're always on the watch." "Yes, they're too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?" "Well, if you come to that," said Jem, "yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can't be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe." Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin. "But he don't seem to mind it so very much." "What do you say to escaping without spears?" "Oh, I'm willing," replied Jem; "only I wouldn't be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn't mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit." "What shall we do then?"<|quote|>"Better wait, Mas' Don. This sort o' thing can't last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they'll make a move, and we may have a better chance."</|quote|>Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway. But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep. It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. NGATI'S GOAL. Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,-- "My pakeha." "Ngati!" Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result. "Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me," grumbled Jem, sitting up. "What's the matter?" "I don't know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and--Oh! Ngati!" His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun. "But there arn't no powder and--Yes, there is." Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he
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Don Lavington
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returned her brother,
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No speaker
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say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the
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I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the habit of asking my advice.
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How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very
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that we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?" "No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you?" "Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen." "Nor I neither. How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. "Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is really implicated in this crime?" "I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't be." "He seemed to me an honest man." "Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not
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"Not a word, Tom?" "How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don't know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed." "You are tired," she whispered presently, more in her usual way. "Yes, I am quite tired out." "You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been made?" "Only those you have heard of, from him." "Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?" "No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you?" "Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen." "Nor I neither. How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. "Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is really implicated in this crime?" "I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't be." "He seemed to me an honest man." "Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not be so." There was a pause, for he had hesitated and stopped. "In short," resumed Tom, as if he had made up his mind, "if you come to that, perhaps I was so far from being altogether in his favour, that I took him outside the door to tell him quietly, that I thought he might consider himself very well off to get such a windfall as he had got from my sister, and that I hoped he would make good use of it. You remember whether I took him out or not. I say nothing against the man; he
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"is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. Say only" "yes," "and I shall understand you!" She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent. "Not a word, Tom?" "How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don't know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed." "You are tired," she whispered presently, more in her usual way. "Yes, I am quite tired out." "You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been made?" "Only those you have heard of, from him." "Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?" "No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you?" "Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen." "Nor I neither. How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. "Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is really implicated in this crime?" "I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't be." "He seemed to me an honest man." "Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not be so." There was a pause, for he had hesitated and stopped. "In short," resumed Tom, as if he had made up his mind, "if you come to that, perhaps I was so far from being altogether in his favour, that I took him outside the door to tell him quietly, that I thought he might consider himself very well off to get such a windfall as he had got from my sister, and that I hoped he would make good use of it. You remember whether I took him out or not. I say nothing against the man; he may be a very good fellow, for anything I know; I hope he is." "Was he offended by what you said?" "No, he took it pretty well; he was civil enough. Where are you, Loo?" He sat up in bed and kissed her. "Good night, my dear, good night." "You have nothing more to tell me?" "No. What should I have? You wouldn't have me tell you a lie!" "I wouldn't have you do that to-night, Tom, of all the nights in your life; many and much happier as I hope they will be." "Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that I am sure I wonder I don't say anything to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed." Kissing her again, he turned round, drew the coverlet over his head, and lay as still as if that time had come by which she had adjured him. She stood for some time at the bedside before she slowly moved away. She stopped at the door, looked back when she had opened it, and asked him if he had called her? But he lay still, and she softly closed the door and returned to her room. Then
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to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!" she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step. She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter? "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. Say only" "yes," "and I shall understand you!" She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent. "Not a word, Tom?" "How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don't know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed." "You are tired," she whispered presently, more in her usual way. "Yes, I am quite tired out." "You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been made?" "Only those you have heard of, from him." "Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?" "No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you?" "Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen." "Nor I neither. How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. "Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is really implicated in this crime?" "I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't be." "He seemed to me an honest man." "Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not be so." There was a pause, for he had hesitated and stopped. "In short," resumed Tom, as if he had made up his mind, "if you come to that, perhaps I was so far from being altogether in his favour, that I took him outside the door to tell him quietly, that I thought he might consider himself very well off to get such a windfall as he had got from my sister, and that I hoped he would make good use of it. You remember whether I took him out or not. I say nothing against the man; he may be a very good fellow, for anything I know; I hope he is." "Was he offended by what you said?" "No, he took it pretty well; he was civil enough. Where are you, Loo?" He sat up in bed and kissed her. "Good night, my dear, good night." "You have nothing more to tell me?" "No. What should I have? You wouldn't have me tell you a lie!" "I wouldn't have you do that to-night, Tom, of all the nights in your life; many and much happier as I hope they will be." "Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that I am sure I wonder I don't say anything to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed." Kissing her again, he turned round, drew the coverlet over his head, and lay as still as if that time had come by which she had adjured him. She stood for some time at the bedside before she slowly moved away. She stopped at the door, looked back when she had opened it, and asked him if he had called her? But he lay still, and she softly closed the door and returned to her room. Then the wretched boy looked cautiously up and found her gone, crept out of bed, fastened his door, and threw himself upon his pillow again: tearing his hair, morosely crying, grudgingly loving her, hatefully but impenitently spurning himself, and no less hatefully and unprofitably spurning all the good in the world. CHAPTER IX HEARING THE LAST OF IT MRS. SPARSIT, lying by to recover the tone of her nerves in Mr. Bounderby's retreat, kept such a sharp look-out, night and day, under her Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, like a couple of lighthouses on an iron-bound coast, might have warned all prudent mariners from that bold rock her Roman nose and the dark and craggy region in its neighbourhood, but for the placidity of her manner. Although it was hard to believe that her retiring for the night could be anything but a form, so severely wide awake were those classical eyes of hers, and so impossible did it seem that her rigid nose could yield to any relaxing influence, yet her manner of sitting, smoothing her uncomfortable, not to say, gritty mittens (they were constructed of a cool fabric like a meat-safe), or of ambling to unknown places of destination with her foot in her cotton stirrup, was so perfectly serene, that most observers would have been constrained to suppose her a dove, embodied by some freak of nature, in the earthly tabernacle of a bird of the hook-beaked order. She was a most wonderful woman for prowling about the house. How she got from story to story was a mystery beyond solution. A lady so decorous in herself, and so highly connected, was not to be suspected of dropping over the banisters or sliding down them, yet her extraordinary facility of locomotion suggested the wild idea. Another noticeable circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was, that she was never hurried. She would shoot with consummate velocity from the roof to the hall, yet would be in full possession of her breath and dignity on the moment of her arrival there. Neither was she ever seen by human vision to go at a great pace. She took very kindly to Mr. Harthouse, and had some pleasant conversation with him soon after her arrival. She made him her stately curtsey in the garden, one morning before breakfast. "It appears but yesterday, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that I had the honour of receiving you
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have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. Say only" "yes," "and I shall understand you!" She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent. "Not a word, Tom?" "How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don't know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed." "You are tired," she whispered presently, more in her usual way. "Yes, I am quite tired out." "You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been made?" "Only those you have heard of, from him." "Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?" "No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you?" "Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen." "Nor I neither. How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo,"<|quote|>returned her brother,</|quote|>"you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. "Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is really implicated in this crime?" "I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't be." "He seemed to me an honest man." "Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not be so." There was a pause, for he had hesitated and stopped. "In short," resumed Tom, as if he had made up his mind, "if you come to that, perhaps I was so far from being altogether in his favour, that I took him outside the door to tell him quietly, that I thought he might consider himself very well off to get such a windfall as he had got from my sister, and that I hoped he would make good use of it. You remember whether I took him out or not. I say nothing against the man; he may be a very good fellow, for anything I know; I hope he is." "Was he offended by what you said?" "No, he took it pretty well; he was civil enough. Where are you, Loo?" He sat up in bed and kissed her. "Good night, my dear, good night." "You have nothing more to tell me?" "No. What should I have? You wouldn't have me tell you a lie!" "I wouldn't have you do that to-night, Tom, of all the nights in your life; many and much happier as I hope they will be." "Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that I am sure I wonder I don't say anything to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed." Kissing her again, he turned round, drew the coverlet over his head, and lay as still as if that time had come by which she had adjured him. She stood for some time at the bedside before she slowly moved away. She stopped at the door, looked back when she had opened it, and asked him if he had called her? But he lay still, and she softly closed the door and returned to her room. Then the wretched boy looked cautiously up and found her gone, crept out of bed, fastened his door, and threw himself upon his pillow again: tearing his hair, morosely crying, grudgingly loving her, hatefully but impenitently spurning himself, and no less hatefully and unprofitably spurning all the good in the world. CHAPTER IX HEARING THE LAST OF IT MRS. SPARSIT, lying by to recover the tone of her nerves in Mr. Bounderby's retreat, kept such a sharp look-out, night and day, under her Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, like a couple of lighthouses on an iron-bound coast, might have warned all prudent mariners from that bold rock her Roman nose and the dark and craggy region in its neighbourhood, but for the placidity of her manner. Although it was hard to believe that her retiring for the night could be anything but a form, so severely wide awake were those classical eyes of hers, and so impossible did it seem that her rigid nose could yield to any relaxing influence, yet her manner of sitting, smoothing
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Hard Times
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said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.
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No speaker
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reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow
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don t see the least reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to
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s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed
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if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with
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to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the
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in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve
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as one of the lost birds dashed senseless against the glass; one of the flying bodies of which the air was full. But he and Katharine were alone together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a twofold radiance. He pitied the unstable creature beside him; he felt a desire to protect him, exposed without the knowledge which made his own way so direct. They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the goal and the other perishes by the way. "You couldn t laugh at some one you cared for." This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reached Denham s ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it directly. Had Rodney spoken those words? "You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the air several yards in front of him? "I ve suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!" "Yes, yes, I know that." "She s laughed at me." "Never to me." The wind blew a space between the words blew them so far away that they seemed unspoken. "How I ve loved her!" This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham s side. The voice had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night. "I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night." Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude. "You re not in love with him?" "But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss,"
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in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go,"<|quote|>said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.</|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." "But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra.
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Night And Day
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"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."
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Lady Otway
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as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was
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round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought,
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s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and was producing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters, alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in, or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled,
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without feeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and was producing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters, alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in, or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled, having evidently mistaken the room. "I never _shall_ know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I m on my way to the library, and I don t want to interrupt. You and Katharine were having a little chat?" The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly uneasy. How
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Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too. "It s so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one s talking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans." The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a way as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss her plans houses and rents, servants and economy without feeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and was producing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters, alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in, or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled, having evidently mistaken the room. "I never _shall_ know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I m on my way to the library, and I don t want to interrupt. You and Katharine were having a little chat?" The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly uneasy. How could she go on with what she was saying in Maggie s presence? for she was saying something that she had never said, all these years, to Maggie herself. "I was telling Katharine a few little commonplaces about marriage," she said, with a little laugh. "Are none of my children looking after you, Maggie?" "Marriage," said Mrs. Hilbery, coming into the room, and nodding her head once or twice, "I always say marriage is a school. And you don t get the prizes unless you go to school. Charlotte has won all the prizes," she added, giving her sister-in-law a
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the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses. "I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn across their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too. "It s so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one s talking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans." The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a way as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss her plans houses and rents, servants and economy without feeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and was producing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters, alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in, or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled, having evidently mistaken the room. "I never _shall_ know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I m on my way to the library, and I don t want to interrupt. You and Katharine were having a little chat?" The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly uneasy. How could she go on with what she was saying in Maggie s presence? for she was saying something that she had never said, all these years, to Maggie herself. "I was telling Katharine a few little commonplaces about marriage," she said, with a little laugh. "Are none of my children looking after you, Maggie?" "Marriage," said Mrs. Hilbery, coming into the room, and nodding her head once or twice, "I always say marriage is a school. And you don t get the prizes unless you go to school. Charlotte has won all the prizes," she added, giving her sister-in-law a little pat, which made Lady Otway more uncomfortable still. She half laughed, muttered something, and ended on a sigh. "Aunt Charlotte was saying that it s no good being married unless you submit to your husband," said Katharine, framing her aunt s words into a far more definite shape than they had really worn; and when she spoke thus she did not appear at all old-fashioned. Lady Otway looked at her and paused for a moment. "Well, I really don t advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married," she said, beginning a fresh row rather elaborately. Mrs. Hilbery knew something of the circumstances which, as she thought, had inspired this remark. In a moment her face was clouded with sympathy which she did not quite know how to express. "What a shame it was!" she exclaimed, forgetting that her train of thought might not be obvious to her listeners. "But, Charlotte, it would have been much worse if Frank had disgraced himself in any way. And it isn t what our husbands GET, but what they _are_. I used to dream of white horses and palanquins, too; but still, I like the ink-pots
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or two at home, nursing sick animals, tending silkworms, or playing the flute in their bedrooms. The distinction between the elder children and the younger corresponded almost to the distinction between a higher class and a lower one, for with only a haphazard education and insufficient allowances, the younger children had picked up accomplishments, friends, and points of view which were not to be found within the walls of a public school or of a Government office. Between the two divisions there was considerable hostility, the elder trying to patronize the younger, the younger refusing to respect the elder; but one feeling united them and instantly closed any risk of a breach their common belief in the superiority of their own family to all others. Henry was the eldest of the younger group, and their leader; he bought strange books and joined odd societies; he went without a tie for a whole year, and had six shirts made of black flannel. He had long refused to take a seat either in a shipping office or in a tea-merchant s warehouse; and persisted, in spite of the disapproval of uncles and aunts, in practicing both violin and piano, with the result that he could not perform professionally upon either. Indeed, for thirty-two years of life he had nothing more substantial to show than a manuscript book containing the score of half an opera. In this protest of his, Katharine had always given him her support, and as she was generally held to be an extremely sensible person, who dressed too well to be eccentric, he had found her support of some use. Indeed, when she came down at Christmas she usually spent a great part of her time in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses. "I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn across their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too. "It s so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one s talking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans." The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a way as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss her plans houses and rents, servants and economy without feeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and was producing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters, alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in, or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled, having evidently mistaken the room. "I never _shall_ know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I m on my way to the library, and I don t want to interrupt. You and Katharine were having a little chat?" The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly uneasy. How could she go on with what she was saying in Maggie s presence? for she was saying something that she had never said, all these years, to Maggie herself. "I was telling Katharine a few little commonplaces about marriage," she said, with a little laugh. "Are none of my children looking after you, Maggie?" "Marriage," said Mrs. Hilbery, coming into the room, and nodding her head once or twice, "I always say marriage is a school. And you don t get the prizes unless you go to school. Charlotte has won all the prizes," she added, giving her sister-in-law a little pat, which made Lady Otway more uncomfortable still. She half laughed, muttered something, and ended on a sigh. "Aunt Charlotte was saying that it s no good being married unless you submit to your husband," said Katharine, framing her aunt s words into a far more definite shape than they had really worn; and when she spoke thus she did not appear at all old-fashioned. Lady Otway looked at her and paused for a moment. "Well, I really don t advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married," she said, beginning a fresh row rather elaborately. Mrs. Hilbery knew something of the circumstances which, as she thought, had inspired this remark. In a moment her face was clouded with sympathy which she did not quite know how to express. "What a shame it was!" she exclaimed, forgetting that her train of thought might not be obvious to her listeners. "But, Charlotte, it would have been much worse if Frank had disgraced himself in any way. And it isn t what our husbands GET, but what they _are_. I used to dream of white horses and palanquins, too; but still, I like the ink-pots best. And who knows?" she concluded, looking at Katharine, "your father may be made a baronet to-morrow." Lady Otway, who was Mr. Hilbery s sister, knew quite well that, in private, the Hilberys called Sir Francis "that old Turk," and though she did not follow the drift of Mrs. Hilbery s remarks, she knew what prompted them. "But if you can give way to your husband," she said, speaking to Katharine, as if there were a separate understanding between them, "a happy marriage is the happiest thing in the world." "Yes," said Katharine, "but" She did not mean to finish her sentence, she merely wished to induce her mother and her aunt to go on talking about marriage, for she was in the mood to feel that other people could help her if they would. She went on knitting, but her fingers worked with a decision that was oddly unlike the smooth and contemplative sweep of Lady Otway s plump hand. Now and then she looked swiftly at her mother, then at her aunt. Mrs. Hilbery held a book in her hand, and was on her way, as Katharine guessed, to the library, where another paragraph was to be added to that varied assortment of paragraphs, the Life of Richard Alardyce. Normally, Katharine would have hurried her mother downstairs, and seen that no excuse for distraction came her way. Her attitude towards the poet s life, however, had changed with other changes; and she was content to forget all about her scheme of hours. Mrs. Hilbery was secretly delighted. Her relief at finding herself excused manifested itself in a series of sidelong glances of sly humor in her daughter s direction, and the indulgence put her in the best of spirits. Was she to be allowed merely to sit and talk? It was so much pleasanter to sit in a nice room filled with all sorts of interesting odds and ends which she hadn t looked at for a year, at least, than to seek out one date which contradicted another in a dictionary. "We ve all had perfect husbands," she concluded, generously forgiving Sir Francis all his faults in a lump. "Not that I think a bad temper is really a fault in a man. I don t mean a bad temper," she corrected herself, with a glance obviously in the direction of Sir Francis. "I should say a
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in private conferences with Henry and with Cassandra, the youngest girl, to whom the silkworms belonged. With the younger section she had a great reputation for common sense, and for something that they despised but inwardly respected and called knowledge of the world that is to say, of the way in which respectable elderly people, going to their clubs and dining out with ministers, think and behave. She had more than once played the part of ambassador between Lady Otway and her children. That poor lady, for instance, consulted her for advice when, one day, she opened Cassandra s bedroom door on a mission of discovery, and found the ceiling hung with mulberry-leaves, the windows blocked with cages, and the tables stacked with home-made machines for the manufacture of silk dresses. "I wish you could help her to take an interest in something that other people are interested in, Katharine," she observed, rather plaintively, detailing her grievances. "It s all Henry s doing, you know, giving up her parties and taking to these nasty insects. It doesn t follow that if a man can do a thing a woman may too." The morning was sufficiently bright to make the chairs and sofas in Lady Otway s private sitting-room appear more than usually shabby, and the gallant gentlemen, her brothers and cousins, who had defended the Empire and left their bones on many frontiers, looked at the world through a film of yellow which the morning light seemed to have drawn across their photographs. Lady Otway sighed, it may be at the faded relics, and turned, with resignation, to her balls of wool, which, curiously and characteristically, were not an ivory-white, but rather a tarnished yellow-white. She had called her niece in for a little chat. She had always trusted her, and now more than ever, since her engagement to Rodney, which seemed to Lady Otway extremely suitable, and just what one would wish for one s own daughter. Katharine unwittingly increased her reputation for wisdom by asking to be given knitting-needles too. "It s so very pleasant," said Lady Otway, "to knit while one s talking. And now, my dear Katharine, tell me about your plans." The emotions of the night before, which she had suppressed in such a way as to keep her awake till dawn, had left Katharine a little jaded, and thus more matter-of-fact than usual. She was quite ready to discuss her plans houses and rents, servants and economy without feeling that they concerned her very much. As she spoke, knitting methodically meanwhile, Lady Otway noted, with approval, the upright, responsible bearing of her niece, to whom the prospect of marriage had brought some gravity most becoming in a bride, and yet, in these days, most rare. Yes, Katharine s engagement had changed her a little. "What a perfect daughter, or daughter-in-law!" she thought to herself, and could not help contrasting her with Cassandra, surrounded by innumerable silkworms in her bedroom. "Yes," she continued, glancing at Katharine, with the round, greenish eyes which were as inexpressive as moist marbles,<|quote|>"Katharine is like the girls of my youth. We took the serious things of life seriously."</|quote|>But just as she was deriving satisfaction from this thought, and was producing some of the hoarded wisdom which none of her own daughters, alas! seemed now to need, the door opened, and Mrs. Hilbery came in, or rather, did not come in, but stood in the doorway and smiled, having evidently mistaken the room. "I never _shall_ know my way about this house!" she exclaimed. "I m on my way to the library, and I don t want to interrupt. You and Katharine were having a little chat?" The presence of her sister-in-law made Lady Otway slightly uneasy. How could she go on with what she was saying in Maggie s presence? for she was saying something that she had never said, all these years, to Maggie herself. "I was telling Katharine a few little commonplaces about marriage," she said, with a little laugh. "Are none of my children looking after you, Maggie?" "Marriage," said Mrs. Hilbery, coming into the room, and nodding her head once or twice, "I always say marriage is a school. And you don t get the prizes unless you go to school. Charlotte has won all the prizes," she added, giving her sister-in-law a little pat, which made Lady Otway more uncomfortable still. She half laughed, muttered something, and ended on a sigh. "Aunt Charlotte was saying that it s no good being married unless you submit to your husband," said Katharine, framing her aunt s words into a far more definite shape than they had really worn; and when she spoke thus she did not appear at all old-fashioned. Lady Otway looked at her and paused for a moment. "Well, I really don t advise a woman who wants to have things her own way to get married," she said, beginning a fresh row rather elaborately. Mrs. Hilbery knew something of the circumstances which, as she thought, had inspired this remark. In a moment her
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Night And Day
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It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.
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No speaker
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remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.”
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and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added
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ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn
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star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked
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the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.” So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes. “They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s
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as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.” So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes. “They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said
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Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.” So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes. “They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m
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sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII<|quote|>It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.</|quote|>“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.” So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes. “They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected
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The Great Gatsby
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(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of
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No speaker
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bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch,
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life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever,
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want me to go on living in this town, to go on living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any one...." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole heart, but ... but you will understand...." And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent herself
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forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success, freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any one...." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole heart, but ... but you will understand...." And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent herself from crying. Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the club into the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew a deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all
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love truly, and I doubt whether this tender, joyful, agonising feeling can be described, and any one who has once experienced it would not attempt to put it into words. What is the use of preliminaries and introductions? What is the use of unnecessary fine words? My love is immeasurable. I beg, I beseech you," Startsev brought out at last, "be my wife!" "Dmitri Ionitch," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with a very grave face, after a moment's thought-- "Dmitri Ionitch, I am very grateful to you for the honour. I respect you, but ..." she got up and continued standing, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success, freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any one...." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole heart, but ... but you will understand...." And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent herself from crying. Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the club into the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew a deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all his dreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupid end, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and he was sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that he felt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violently belaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella. For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eat nor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away to Moscow to enter the Conservatoire, he grew calmer and lived as
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taken in a man who was in love with her, and at being the object of such intense love, burst out laughing and suddenly uttered a shriek of terror, for, at that very minute, the horses turned sharply in at the gate of the club, and the carriage almost tilted over. Startsev put his arm round Ekaterina Ivanovna's waist; in her fright she nestled up to him, and he could not restrain himself, and passionately kissed her on the lips and on the chin, and hugged her more tightly. "That's enough," she said drily. And a minute later she was not in the carriage, and a policeman near the lighted entrance of the club shouted in a detestable voice to Panteleimon: "What are you stopping for, you crow? Drive on." Startsev drove home, but soon afterwards returned. Attired in another man's dress suit and a stiff white tie which kept sawing at his neck and trying to slip away from the collar, he was sitting at midnight in the club drawing-room, and was saying with enthusiasm to Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Ah, how little people know who have never loved! It seems to me that no one has ever yet written of love truly, and I doubt whether this tender, joyful, agonising feeling can be described, and any one who has once experienced it would not attempt to put it into words. What is the use of preliminaries and introductions? What is the use of unnecessary fine words? My love is immeasurable. I beg, I beseech you," Startsev brought out at last, "be my wife!" "Dmitri Ionitch," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with a very grave face, after a moment's thought-- "Dmitri Ionitch, I am very grateful to you for the honour. I respect you, but ..." she got up and continued standing, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success, freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any one...." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole heart, but ... but you will understand...." And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent herself from crying. Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the club into the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew a deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all his dreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupid end, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and he was sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that he felt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violently belaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella. For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eat nor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away to Moscow to enter the Conservatoire, he grew calmer and lived as before. Afterwards, remembering sometimes how he had wandered about the cemetery or how he had driven all over the town to get a dress suit, he stretched lazily and said: "What a lot of trouble, though!" IV Four years had passed. Startsev already had a large practice in the town. Every morning he hurriedly saw his patients at Dyalizh, then he drove in to see his town patients. By now he drove, not with a pair, but with a team of three with bells on them, and he returned home late at night. He had grown broader and stouter, and was not very fond of walking, as he was somewhat asthmatic. And Panteleimon had grown stout, too, and the broader he grew, the more mournfully he sighed and complained of his hard luck: he was sick of driving! Startsev used to visit various households and met many people, but did not become intimate with any one. The inhabitants irritated him by their conversation, their views of life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him by degrees that while he played cards or lunched with one of these people, the man was a peaceable, friendly, and even intelligent human being; that
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had to sit a long time again in the dining-room drinking tea. Ivan Petrovitch, seeing that his visitor was bored and preoccupied, drew some notes out of his waistcoat pocket, read a funny letter from a German steward, saying that all the ironmongery was ruined and the plasticity was peeling off the walls. "I expect they will give a decent dowry," thought Startsev, listening absent-mindedly. After a sleepless night, he found himself in a state of stupefaction, as though he had been given something sweet and soporific to drink; there was fog in his soul, but joy and warmth, and at the same time a sort of cold, heavy fragment of his brain was reflecting: "Stop before it is too late! Is she the match for you? She is spoilt, whimsical, sleeps till two o'clock in the afternoon, while you are a deacon's son, a district doctor...." "What of it?" he thought. "I don't care." "Besides, if you marry her," the fragment went on, "then her relations will make you give up the district work and live in the town." "After all," he thought, "if it must be the town, the town it must be. They will give a dowry; we can establish ourselves suitably." At last Ekaterina Ivanovna came in, dressed for the ball, with a low neck, looking fresh and pretty; and Startsev admired her so much, and went into such ecstasies, that he could say nothing, but simply stared at her and laughed. She began saying good-bye, and he--he had no reason for staying now--got up, saying that it was time for him to go home; his patients were waiting for him. "Well, there's no help for that," said Ivan Petrovitch. "Go, and you might take Kitten to the club on the way." It was spotting with rain; it was very dark, and they could only tell where the horses were by Panteleimon's husky cough. The hood of the carriage was put up. "I stand upright; you lie down right; he lies all right," said Ivan Petrovitch as he put his daughter into the carriage. They drove off. "I was at the cemetery yesterday," Startsev began. "How ungenerous and merciless it was on your part!..." "You went to the cemetery?" "Yes, I went there and waited almost till two o'clock. I suffered...." "Well, suffer, if you cannot understand a joke." Ekaterina Ivanovna, pleased at having so cleverly taken in a man who was in love with her, and at being the object of such intense love, burst out laughing and suddenly uttered a shriek of terror, for, at that very minute, the horses turned sharply in at the gate of the club, and the carriage almost tilted over. Startsev put his arm round Ekaterina Ivanovna's waist; in her fright she nestled up to him, and he could not restrain himself, and passionately kissed her on the lips and on the chin, and hugged her more tightly. "That's enough," she said drily. And a minute later she was not in the carriage, and a policeman near the lighted entrance of the club shouted in a detestable voice to Panteleimon: "What are you stopping for, you crow? Drive on." Startsev drove home, but soon afterwards returned. Attired in another man's dress suit and a stiff white tie which kept sawing at his neck and trying to slip away from the collar, he was sitting at midnight in the club drawing-room, and was saying with enthusiasm to Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Ah, how little people know who have never loved! It seems to me that no one has ever yet written of love truly, and I doubt whether this tender, joyful, agonising feeling can be described, and any one who has once experienced it would not attempt to put it into words. What is the use of preliminaries and introductions? What is the use of unnecessary fine words? My love is immeasurable. I beg, I beseech you," Startsev brought out at last, "be my wife!" "Dmitri Ionitch," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with a very grave face, after a moment's thought-- "Dmitri Ionitch, I am very grateful to you for the honour. I respect you, but ..." she got up and continued standing, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success, freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any one...." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole heart, but ... but you will understand...." And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent herself from crying. Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the club into the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew a deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all his dreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupid end, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and he was sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that he felt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violently belaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella. For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eat nor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away to Moscow to enter the Conservatoire, he grew calmer and lived as before. Afterwards, remembering sometimes how he had wandered about the cemetery or how he had driven all over the town to get a dress suit, he stretched lazily and said: "What a lot of trouble, though!" IV Four years had passed. Startsev already had a large practice in the town. Every morning he hurriedly saw his patients at Dyalizh, then he drove in to see his town patients. By now he drove, not with a pair, but with a team of three with bells on them, and he returned home late at night. He had grown broader and stouter, and was not very fond of walking, as he was somewhat asthmatic. And Panteleimon had grown stout, too, and the broader he grew, the more mournfully he sighed and complained of his hard luck: he was sick of driving! Startsev used to visit various households and met many people, but did not become intimate with any one. The inhabitants irritated him by their conversation, their views of life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him by degrees that while he played cards or lunched with one of these people, the man was a peaceable, friendly, and even intelligent human being; that as soon as one talked of anything not eatable, for instance, of politics or science, he would be completely at a loss, or would expound a philosophy so stupid and ill-natured that there was nothing else to do but wave one's hand in despair and go away. Even when Startsev tried to talk to liberal citizens, saying, for instance, that humanity, thank God, was progressing, and that one day it would be possible to dispense with passports and capital punishment, the liberal citizen would look at him askance and ask him mistrustfully: "Then any one could murder any one he chose in the open street?" And when, at tea or supper, Startsev observed in company that one should work, and that one ought not to live without working, every one took this as a reproach, and began to get angry and argue aggressively. With all that, the inhabitants did nothing, absolutely nothing, and took no interest in anything, and it was quite impossible to think of anything to say. And Startsev avoided conversation, and confined himself to eating and playing _vint_; and when there was a family festivity in some household and he was invited to a meal, then he sat and ate in silence, looking at his plate. And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been a Pole. All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account. He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came
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could not restrain himself, and passionately kissed her on the lips and on the chin, and hugged her more tightly. "That's enough," she said drily. And a minute later she was not in the carriage, and a policeman near the lighted entrance of the club shouted in a detestable voice to Panteleimon: "What are you stopping for, you crow? Drive on." Startsev drove home, but soon afterwards returned. Attired in another man's dress suit and a stiff white tie which kept sawing at his neck and trying to slip away from the collar, he was sitting at midnight in the club drawing-room, and was saying with enthusiasm to Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Ah, how little people know who have never loved! It seems to me that no one has ever yet written of love truly, and I doubt whether this tender, joyful, agonising feeling can be described, and any one who has once experienced it would not attempt to put it into words. What is the use of preliminaries and introductions? What is the use of unnecessary fine words? My love is immeasurable. I beg, I beseech you," Startsev brought out at last, "be my wife!" "Dmitri Ionitch," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with a very grave face, after a moment's thought-- "Dmitri Ionitch, I am very grateful to you for the honour. I respect you, but ..." she got up and continued standing, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success, freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to me. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towards a lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondage for ever. Dmitri Ionitch"<|quote|>(she faintly smiled as she pronounced his name; she thought of</|quote|>"Alexey Feofilaktitch" )-- "Dmitri Ionitch, you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than any one...." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my whole heart, but ... but you will understand...." And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to prevent herself from crying. Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the club into the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew a deep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all his dreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupid end, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and he was sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that he felt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violently belaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella. For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eat nor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away to Moscow to enter the Conservatoire, he grew calmer and lived as before. Afterwards, remembering sometimes how he had wandered about the cemetery or how he had driven all over the town to get a dress suit, he stretched lazily and said: "What a lot of trouble, though!" IV Four years had passed. Startsev already had a large practice in the town. Every morning he hurriedly saw his patients at Dyalizh, then he drove in to see his town patients. By now he drove, not with a pair, but with a team of three with bells on them, and he returned home late at night. He had grown broader and stouter, and was not very fond of walking, as he was somewhat asthmatic. And Panteleimon had grown stout, too, and the broader he grew, the more mournfully he sighed and complained of his hard luck: he was sick of driving! Startsev used to visit various households and met many people, but did not become intimate with any one. The inhabitants irritated him by their conversation, their views of life, and even their appearance. Experience taught him by degrees that while he played cards or lunched with one of these people, the man was a peaceable, friendly, and even intelligent human being; that as soon as one talked of anything not eatable, for instance, of politics or science, he would be completely at a loss, or would expound a philosophy so stupid and ill-natured that there was nothing else to do but wave one's hand in despair and go away. Even when Startsev tried to
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4)
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said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.
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No speaker
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“I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted
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believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her
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powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her
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freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her
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hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to
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their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled
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was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms. “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.” “Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.” Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. “You always look so cool,” she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago. “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—” “All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.” He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved. “Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.” His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” “Everybody smoked all through lunch.” “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went
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all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,”<|quote|>said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.</|quote|>“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in
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The Great Gatsby
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"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."
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Mike Campbell
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got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am
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that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to
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told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk
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hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the
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pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them
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driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta. The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark
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the wire fastener and poured it for him. "You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!" '" He took a drink. "That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life. Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so." He stood up. His hand was shaky. "I'm going in the room. Try and get a little sleep." He smiled. "We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I'm going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy." "We'll see you at noon at the Iru a," Bill said. Mike went out the door. We heard him in the next room. He rang the bell and the chambermaid came and knocked at the door. "Bring up half a dozen bottles of beer and a bottle of Fundador," Mike told her. "Si, Se orito." "I'm going to bed," Bill said. "Poor old Mike. I had a hell of a row about him last night." "Where? At that Milano place?" "Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned nasty." "I know the story." "I didn't. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about Mike." "That's what makes it bad." "They oughtn't to have any right. I wish to hell they didn't have any right. I'm going to bed." "Was anybody killed in the ring?" "I don't think so. Just badly hurt." "A man was killed outside in the runway." "Was there?" said Bill. CHAPTER 18 At noon we were all at the caf . It was crowded. We were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta. The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into
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not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the caf s men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing. "Here comes Brett," Bill said. I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing. "Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst." "Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Shrimps?" "Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip. "Good beer." "Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control. "I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. That was all." "I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said.<|quote|>"She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."</|quote|>Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"
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Matthew Cuthbert
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the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess
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agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my oar
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her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she need never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out-of-doors. Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my oar occasional never did much harm after all. She's smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better than all the rest. She's been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made--if it
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young cheek against Marilla's faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew's shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then to have possessed Anne's power of putting her feelings into words; but nature and habit had willed it otherwise, and she could only put her arms close about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she need never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out-of-doors. Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my oar occasional never did much harm after all. She's smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better than all the rest. She's been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made--if it _was_ luck. I don't believe it was any such thing. It was Providence, because the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon." The day finally came when Anne must go to town. She and Matthew drove in one fine September morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and an untearful
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all--and I just got lonesome thinking it all over." "Marilla!" Anne sat down on Marilla's gingham lap, took Marilla's lined face between her hands, and looked gravely and tenderly into Marilla's eyes. "I'm not a bit changed--not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real _me_--back here--is just the same. It won't make a bit of difference where I go or how much I change outwardly; at heart I shall always be your little Anne, who will love you and Matthew and dear Green Gables more and better every day of her life." Anne laid her fresh young cheek against Marilla's faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew's shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then to have possessed Anne's power of putting her feelings into words; but nature and habit had willed it otherwise, and she could only put her arms close about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she need never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out-of-doors. Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my oar occasional never did much harm after all. She's smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better than all the rest. She's been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made--if it _was_ luck. I don't believe it was any such thing. It was Providence, because the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon." The day finally came when Anne must go to town. She and Matthew drove in one fine September morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and an untearful practical one--on Marilla's side at least--with Marilla. But when Anne had gone Diana dried her tears and went to a beach picnic at White Sands with some of her Carmody cousins, where she contrived to enjoy herself tolerably well; while Marilla plunged fiercely into unnecessary work and kept at it all day long with the bitterest kind of heartache--the ache that burns and gnaws and cannot wash itself away in ready tears. But that night, when Marilla went to bed, acutely and miserably conscious that the little gable room at the end of the hall was untenanted by any vivid
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frills and shirrings as Emily's taste permitted. Anne put it on one evening for Matthew's and Marilla's benefit, and recited "The Maiden's Vow" for them in the kitchen. As Marilla watched the bright, animated face and graceful motions her thoughts went back to the evening Anne had arrived at Green Gables, and memory recalled a vivid picture of the odd, frightened child in her preposterous yellowish-brown wincey dress, the heartbreak looking out of her tearful eyes. Something in the memory brought tears to Marilla's own eyes. "I declare, my recitation has made you cry, Marilla," said Anne gaily stooping over Marilla's chair to drop a butterfly kiss on that lady's cheek. "Now, I call that a positive triumph." "No, I wasn't crying over your piece," said Marilla, who would have scorned to be betrayed into such weakness by any poetry stuff. "I just couldn't help thinking of the little girl you used to be, Anne. And I was wishing you could have stayed a little girl, even with all your queer ways. You've grown up now and you're going away; and you look so tall and stylish and so--so--different altogether in that dress--as if you didn't belong in Avonlea at all--and I just got lonesome thinking it all over." "Marilla!" Anne sat down on Marilla's gingham lap, took Marilla's lined face between her hands, and looked gravely and tenderly into Marilla's eyes. "I'm not a bit changed--not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real _me_--back here--is just the same. It won't make a bit of difference where I go or how much I change outwardly; at heart I shall always be your little Anne, who will love you and Matthew and dear Green Gables more and better every day of her life." Anne laid her fresh young cheek against Marilla's faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew's shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then to have possessed Anne's power of putting her feelings into words; but nature and habit had willed it otherwise, and she could only put her arms close about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she need never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out-of-doors. Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my oar occasional never did much harm after all. She's smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better than all the rest. She's been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made--if it _was_ luck. I don't believe it was any such thing. It was Providence, because the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon." The day finally came when Anne must go to town. She and Matthew drove in one fine September morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and an untearful practical one--on Marilla's side at least--with Marilla. But when Anne had gone Diana dried her tears and went to a beach picnic at White Sands with some of her Carmody cousins, where she contrived to enjoy herself tolerably well; while Marilla plunged fiercely into unnecessary work and kept at it all day long with the bitterest kind of heartache--the ache that burns and gnaws and cannot wash itself away in ready tears. But that night, when Marilla went to bed, acutely and miserably conscious that the little gable room at the end of the hall was untenanted by any vivid young life and unstirred by any soft breathing, she buried her face in her pillow, and wept for her girl in a passion of sobs that appalled her when she grew calm enough to reflect how very wicked it must be to take on so about a sinful fellow creature. Anne and the rest of the Avonlea scholars reached town just in time to hurry off to the Academy. That first day passed pleasantly enough in a whirl of excitement, meeting all the new students, learning to know the professors by sight and being assorted and organized into classes. Anne intended taking up the Second Year work being advised to do so by Miss Stacy; Gilbert Blythe elected to do the same. This meant getting a First Class teacher's license in one year instead of two, if they were successful; but it also meant much more and harder work. Jane, Ruby, Josie, Charlie, and Moody Spurgeon, not being troubled with the stirrings of ambition, were content to take up the Second Class work. Anne was conscious of a pang of loneliness when she found herself in a room with fifty other students, not one of whom she knew, except the
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You wouldn't change into any of those women if you could. Would you want to be that white-lace girl and wear a sour look all your life, as if you'd been born turning up your nose at the world? Or the pink lady, kind and nice as she is, so stout and short that you'd really no figure at all? Or even Mrs. Evans, with that sad, sad look in her eyes? She must have been dreadfully unhappy sometime to have such a look. You _know_ you wouldn't, Jane Andrews!" "I _don't_ know--exactly," said Jane unconvinced. "I think diamonds would comfort a person for a good deal." "Well, I don't want to be anyone but myself, even if I go uncomforted by diamonds all my life," declared Anne. "I'm quite content to be Anne of Green Gables, with my string of pearl beads. I know Matthew gave me as much love with them as ever went with Madame the Pink Lady's jewels." CHAPTER XXXIV. A Queen's Girl |THE next three weeks were busy ones at Green Gables, for Anne was getting ready to go to Queen's, and there was much sewing to be done, and many things to be talked over and arranged. Anne's outfit was ample and pretty, for Matthew saw to that, and Marilla for once made no objections whatever to anything he purchased or suggested. More--one evening she went up to the east gable with her arms full of a delicate pale green material. "Anne, here's something for a nice light dress for you. I don't suppose you really need it; you've plenty of pretty waists; but I thought maybe you'd like something real dressy to wear if you were asked out anywhere of an evening in town, to a party or anything like that. I hear that Jane and Ruby and Josie have got ?evening dresses,' as they call them, and I don't mean you shall be behind them. I got Mrs. Allan to help me pick it in town last week, and we'll get Emily Gillis to make it for you. Emily has got taste, and her fits aren't to be equaled." "Oh, Marilla, it's just lovely," said Anne. "Thank you so much. I don't believe you ought to be so kind to me--it's making it harder every day for me to go away." The green dress was made up with as many tucks and frills and shirrings as Emily's taste permitted. Anne put it on one evening for Matthew's and Marilla's benefit, and recited "The Maiden's Vow" for them in the kitchen. As Marilla watched the bright, animated face and graceful motions her thoughts went back to the evening Anne had arrived at Green Gables, and memory recalled a vivid picture of the odd, frightened child in her preposterous yellowish-brown wincey dress, the heartbreak looking out of her tearful eyes. Something in the memory brought tears to Marilla's own eyes. "I declare, my recitation has made you cry, Marilla," said Anne gaily stooping over Marilla's chair to drop a butterfly kiss on that lady's cheek. "Now, I call that a positive triumph." "No, I wasn't crying over your piece," said Marilla, who would have scorned to be betrayed into such weakness by any poetry stuff. "I just couldn't help thinking of the little girl you used to be, Anne. And I was wishing you could have stayed a little girl, even with all your queer ways. You've grown up now and you're going away; and you look so tall and stylish and so--so--different altogether in that dress--as if you didn't belong in Avonlea at all--and I just got lonesome thinking it all over." "Marilla!" Anne sat down on Marilla's gingham lap, took Marilla's lined face between her hands, and looked gravely and tenderly into Marilla's eyes. "I'm not a bit changed--not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real _me_--back here--is just the same. It won't make a bit of difference where I go or how much I change outwardly; at heart I shall always be your little Anne, who will love you and Matthew and dear Green Gables more and better every day of her life." Anne laid her fresh young cheek against Marilla's faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew's shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then to have possessed Anne's power of putting her feelings into words; but nature and habit had willed it otherwise, and she could only put her arms close about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she need never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out-of-doors. Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my oar occasional never did much harm after all. She's smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better than all the rest. She's been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made--if it _was_ luck. I don't believe it was any such thing. It was Providence, because the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon." The day finally came when Anne must go to town. She and Matthew drove in one fine September morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and an untearful practical one--on Marilla's side at least--with Marilla. But when Anne had gone Diana dried her tears and went to a beach picnic at White Sands with some of her Carmody cousins, where she contrived to enjoy herself tolerably well; while Marilla plunged fiercely into unnecessary work and kept at it all day long with the bitterest kind of heartache--the ache that burns and gnaws and cannot wash itself away in ready tears. But that night, when Marilla went to bed, acutely and miserably conscious that the little gable room at the end of the hall was untenanted by any vivid young life and unstirred by any soft breathing, she buried her face in her pillow, and wept for her girl in a passion of sobs that appalled her when she grew calm enough to reflect how very wicked it must be to take on so about a sinful fellow creature. Anne and the rest of the Avonlea scholars reached town just in time to hurry off to the Academy. That first day passed pleasantly enough in a whirl of excitement, meeting all the new students, learning to know the professors by sight and being assorted and organized into classes. Anne intended taking up the Second Year work being advised to do so by Miss Stacy; Gilbert Blythe elected to do the same. This meant getting a First Class teacher's license in one year instead of two, if they were successful; but it also meant much more and harder work. Jane, Ruby, Josie, Charlie, and Moody Spurgeon, not being troubled with the stirrings of ambition, were content to take up the Second Class work. Anne was conscious of a pang of loneliness when she found herself in a room with fifty other students, not one of whom she knew, except the tall, brown-haired boy across the room; and knowing him in the fashion she did, did not help her much, as she reflected pessimistically. Yet she was undeniably glad that they were in the same class; the old rivalry could still be carried on, and Anne would hardly have known what to do if it had been lacking. "I wouldn't feel comfortable without it," she thought. "Gilbert looks awfully determined. I suppose he's making up his mind, here and now, to win the medal. What a splendid chin he has! I never noticed it before. I do wish Jane and Ruby had gone in for First Class, too. I suppose I won't feel so much like a cat in a strange garret when I get acquainted, though. I wonder which of the girls here are going to be my friends. It's really an interesting speculation. Of course I promised Diana that no Queen's girl, no matter how much I liked her, should ever be as dear to me as she is; but I've lots of second-best affections to bestow. I like the look of that girl with the brown eyes and the crimson waist. She looks vivid and red-rosy; there's that pale, fair one gazing out of the window. She has lovely hair, and looks as if she knew a thing or two about dreams. I'd like to know them both--know them well--well enough to walk with my arm about their waists, and call them nicknames. But just now I don't know them and they don't know me, and probably don't want to know me particularly. Oh, it's lonesome!" It was lonesomer still when Anne found herself alone in her hall bedroom that night at twilight. She was not to board with the other girls, who all had relatives in town to take pity on them. Miss Josephine Barry would have liked to board her, but Beechwood was so far from the Academy that it was out of the question; so Miss Barry hunted up a boarding-house, assuring Matthew and Marilla that it was the very place for Anne. "The lady who keeps it is a reduced gentlewoman," explained Miss Barry. "Her husband was a British officer, and she is very careful what sort of boarders she takes. Anne will not meet with any objectionable persons under her roof. The table is good, and the house is near the Academy, in
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have scorned to be betrayed into such weakness by any poetry stuff. "I just couldn't help thinking of the little girl you used to be, Anne. And I was wishing you could have stayed a little girl, even with all your queer ways. You've grown up now and you're going away; and you look so tall and stylish and so--so--different altogether in that dress--as if you didn't belong in Avonlea at all--and I just got lonesome thinking it all over." "Marilla!" Anne sat down on Marilla's gingham lap, took Marilla's lined face between her hands, and looked gravely and tenderly into Marilla's eyes. "I'm not a bit changed--not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real _me_--back here--is just the same. It won't make a bit of difference where I go or how much I change outwardly; at heart I shall always be your little Anne, who will love you and Matthew and dear Green Gables more and better every day of her life." Anne laid her fresh young cheek against Marilla's faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew's shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then to have possessed Anne's power of putting her feelings into words; but nature and habit had willed it otherwise, and she could only put her arms close about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she need never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out-of-doors. Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars.<|quote|>"Well now, I guess she ain't been much spoiled,"</|quote|>he muttered, proudly. "I guess my putting in my oar occasional never did much harm after all. She's smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better than all the rest. She's been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made--if it _was_ luck. I don't believe it was any such thing. It was Providence, because the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon." The day finally came when Anne must go to town. She and Matthew drove in one fine September morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and an untearful practical one--on Marilla's side at least--with Marilla. But when Anne had gone Diana dried her tears and went to a beach picnic at White Sands with some of her Carmody cousins, where she contrived to enjoy herself tolerably well; while Marilla plunged fiercely into unnecessary work and kept at it all day long with the bitterest kind of heartache--the ache that burns and gnaws and cannot wash itself away in ready tears. But that night, when Marilla went to bed, acutely and miserably conscious that the little gable room at the end of the hall was untenanted by any vivid young life and unstirred by any soft breathing, she buried her face in her pillow, and wept for her girl in a passion of sobs that appalled her when she grew calm enough to reflect how very wicked it must be to take on so about a sinful fellow creature. Anne and the rest of the Avonlea scholars reached town just in time to hurry off to the Academy. That first day passed pleasantly enough in a whirl of excitement, meeting all the new students, learning to know the professors by sight and being assorted and organized into classes. Anne intended taking up the Second Year work being advised to do so by Miss Stacy; Gilbert Blythe elected to do the same. This meant getting a First Class teacher's license in one year instead of two, if they were successful; but it also meant much more and harder work. Jane, Ruby, Josie, Charlie, and Moody Spurgeon, not being troubled with the stirrings of ambition, were content to take up the Second Class work. Anne was conscious of a pang of loneliness when she found herself in a room with fifty other students, not one of whom she knew, except the tall, brown-haired boy across the room; and knowing him in the fashion she did, did not help her much, as she reflected pessimistically. Yet she was undeniably glad that they were in the same class; the old rivalry could still be carried on, and Anne would hardly
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Anne Of Green Gables
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she said.
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No speaker
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Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone;
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and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone; I am going to meet
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"You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won t keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing
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the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don t think it s safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won t keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful Giovanelli." "My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian."
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man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He s tremendously clever. He s perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we ll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I m going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don t think it s safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won t keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful Giovanelli." "My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian." "Well, he speaks English," said Mrs. Miller. "Gracious me!" Daisy exclaimed, "I don t to do anything improper. There s an easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he
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ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I m coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I ve got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I shall be happy to see any of your friends," said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. "Oh, they are not my friends," answered Daisy s mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion. "I never spoke to them." "It s an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He s an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He s a great friend of mine; he s the handsomest man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He s tremendously clever. He s perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we ll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I m going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don t think it s safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won t keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful Giovanelli." "My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian." "Well, he speaks English," said Mrs. Miller. "Gracious me!" Daisy exclaimed, "I don t to do anything improper. There s an easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. "Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I m going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in Daisy s mind when she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing. "Why haven t you been to see me?" asked Daisy. "You can t get out of that." "I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out of the train." "You must have stayed in the train a
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Zurich," she concluded, "I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn t heard half so much about it." "The best place we ve seen is the City of Richmond!" said Randolph. "He means the ship," his mother explained. "We crossed in that ship. Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond." "It s the best place I ve seen," the child repeated. "Only it was turned the wrong way." "Well, we ve got to turn the right way some time," said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away. "It s on account of the society--the society s splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there s nothing like Rome. Of course, it s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen." By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!" the young girl announced. "And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn t do anything. You wouldn t stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?" murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne. "Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker s ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I m coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I ve got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I shall be happy to see any of your friends," said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. "Oh, they are not my friends," answered Daisy s mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion. "I never spoke to them." "It s an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He s an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He s a great friend of mine; he s the handsomest man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He s tremendously clever. He s perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we ll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I m going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don t think it s safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won t keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful Giovanelli." "My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian." "Well, he speaks English," said Mrs. Miller. "Gracious me!" Daisy exclaimed, "I don t to do anything improper. There s an easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. "Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I m going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in Daisy s mind when she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing. "Why haven t you been to see me?" asked Daisy. "You can t get out of that." "I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out of the train." "You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!" cried the young girl with her little laugh. "I suppose you were asleep. You have had time to go to see Mrs. Walker." "I knew Mrs. Walker--" Winterbourne began to explain. "I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so. Well, you knew me at Vevey. That s just as good. So you ought to have come." She asked him no other question than this; she began to prattle about her own affairs. "We ve got splendid rooms at the hotel; Eugenio says they re the best rooms in Rome. We are going to stay all winter, if we don t die of the fever; and I guess we ll stay then. It s a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things. But we only had about a week of that, and now I m enjoying myself. I know ever so many people, and they are all so charming. The society s extremely select. There are all kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There s something or other every day. There s not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker s, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his
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glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He s an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He s a great friend of mine; he s the handsomest man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He s tremendously clever. He s perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we ll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I m going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don t think it s safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,"<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>"I m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won t keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful Giovanelli." "My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian." "Well, he speaks English," said Mrs. Miller. "Gracious me!" Daisy exclaimed, "I don t to do anything improper. There s an easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. "Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I m going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth
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Daisy Miller
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"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"
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Josiah Bounderby
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"Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and
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carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation
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not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" "When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't
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looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" "When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No,"
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had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" "When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr.
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in for it, to the same extent as if I believed it. And what more could I possibly do, if I did believe it!" "You are a singular politician," said Louisa. "Pardon me; I have not even that merit. We are the largest party in the state, I assure you, Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of our adopted ranks and were reviewed together." Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of bursting in silence, interposed here with a project for postponing the family dinner till half-past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in the meantime on a round of visits to the voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and its vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though with a considerable accession of boredom. In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down only three. It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss the flavour of the hap'orth of stewed eels he had purchased in the streets at eight years old; and also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" "When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more." Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in the course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither. [Picture: Mr. Harthouse dines at the Bounderby's] CHAPTER III THE WHELP IT was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural restraint, should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It was very strange that a young gentleman who had never been left to his own guidance for five consecutive minutes, should be incapable at last of governing himself; but so it was with Tom.
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the harness in which a conventional hack like myself works." "You respect Mr. Bounderby very much," she quietly returned. "It is natural that you should." He was disgracefully thrown out, for a gentleman who had seen so much of the world, and thought, "Now, how am I to take this?" "You are going to devote yourself, as I gather from what Mr. Bounderby has said, to the service of your country. You have made up your mind," said Louisa, still standing before him where she had first stopped in all the singular contrariety of her self-possession, and her being obviously very ill at ease "to show the nation the way out of all its difficulties." "Mrs. Bounderby," he returned, laughing, "upon my honour, no. I will make no such pretence to you. I have seen a little, here and there, up and down; I have found it all to be very worthless, as everybody has, and as some confess they have, and some do not; and I am going in for your respected father's opinions really because I have no choice of opinions, and may as well back them as anything else." "Have you none of your own?" asked Louisa. "I have not so much as the slightest predilection left. I assure you I attach not the least importance to any opinions. The result of the varieties of boredom I have undergone, is a conviction (unless conviction is too industrious a word for the lazy sentiment I entertain on the subject), that any set of ideas will do just as much good as any other set, and just as much harm as any other set. There's an English family with a charming Italian motto. What will be, will be. It's the only truth going!" This vicious assumption of honesty in dishonesty a vice so dangerous, so deadly, and so common seemed, he observed, a little to impress her in his favour. He followed up the advantage, by saying in his pleasantest manner: a manner to which she might attach as much or as little meaning as she pleased: "The side that can prove anything in a line of units, tens, hundreds, and thousands, Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me to afford the most fun, and to give a man the best chance. I am quite as much attached to it as if I believed it. I am quite ready to go in for it, to the same extent as if I believed it. And what more could I possibly do, if I did believe it!" "You are a singular politician," said Louisa. "Pardon me; I have not even that merit. We are the largest party in the state, I assure you, Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of our adopted ranks and were reviewed together." Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of bursting in silence, interposed here with a project for postponing the family dinner till half-past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in the meantime on a round of visits to the voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and its vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though with a considerable accession of boredom. In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down only three. It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss the flavour of the hap'orth of stewed eels he had purchased in the streets at eight years old; and also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" "When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more." Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in the course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither. [Picture: Mr. Harthouse dines at the Bounderby's] CHAPTER III THE WHELP IT was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural restraint, should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It was very strange that a young gentleman who had never been left to his own guidance for five consecutive minutes, should be incapable at last of governing himself; but so it was with Tom. It was altogether unaccountable that a young gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle, should be still inconvenienced by its ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; but such a monster, beyond all doubt, was Tom. "Do you smoke?" asked Mr. James Harthouse, when they came to the hotel. "I believe you!" said Tom. He could do no less than ask Tom up; and Tom could do no less than go up. What with a cooling drink adapted to the weather, but not so weak as cool; and what with a rarer tobacco than was to be bought in those parts; Tom was soon in a highly free and easy state at his end of the sofa, and more than ever disposed to admire his new friend at the other end. Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had been smoking a little while, and took an observation of his friend. "He don't seem to care about his dress," thought Tom, "and yet how capitally he does it. What an easy swell he is!" Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch Tom's eye, remarked that he drank nothing, and filled his glass with his own negligent hand. "Thank'ee," said Tom. "Thank'ee. Well, Mr. Harthouse, I hope you have had about a dose of old Bounderby to-night." Tom said this with one eye shut up again, and looking over his glass knowingly, at his entertainer. "A very good fellow indeed!" returned Mr. James Harthouse. "You think so, don't you?" said Tom. And shut up his eye again. Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and rising from his end of the sofa, and lounging with his back against the chimney-piece, so that he stood before the empty fire-grate as he smoked, in front of Tom and looking down at him, observed: "What a comical brother-in-law you are!" "What a comical brother-in-law old Bounderby is, I think you mean," said Tom. "You are a piece of caustic, Tom," retorted Mr. James Harthouse. There was something so very agreeable in being so intimate with such a waistcoat; in being called Tom, in such an intimate way, by such a voice; in being on such off-hand terms so soon, with such a pair of whiskers; that Tom was uncommonly pleased with himself. "Oh! I don't care for old Bounderby," said he, "if you mean that. I have always called old Bounderby by the same name when
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voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and its vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though with a considerable accession of boredom. In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down only three. It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss the flavour of the hap'orth of stewed eels he had purchased in the streets at eight years old; and also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor.<|quote|>"This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!"</|quote|>The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby, "I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" "When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more." Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in the course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither. [Picture: Mr. Harthouse dines at the Bounderby's]
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Hard Times
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he replied.
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No speaker
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wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what
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stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever
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as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have
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or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I
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brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed.
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and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.” “Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.” He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership with which Harold drew near annoyed me, or, as Sunday-school teachers would explain it, Satan got hold of me. He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on the table beneath my hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing his lips to mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strength right across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have smashed my arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was impossible. It had left a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin. His moustache had saved his lips, but it had caught his nose, the left cheek, had blinded the left eye, and had left a cut on the temple from
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fry, where we had no end of fun and idle chatter. We had to wait on ourselves, and as all formality was dispensed with, it was something like a picnic. The heat was excessive. Every window and door were open, and the balmy, almost imperceptible, zephyrs which faintly rustled the curtains and kissed our perspiration-beaded brows were rich with many scents from the wide old flower-garden, which, despite the drought, brought forth a wealth of blossom. When done eating we had to wash the dishes. Such a scamper ensued back and forwards to the kitchen, which rang with noise, and merriment. Everyone was helping, hindering, laughing, joking, teasing, and brimming over with fun and enjoyment. When we had completed this task, dancing was proposed. Some of the elderly and more sensible people said it was too hot, but all the young folks did not care a rap for the temperature. Harold had no objections, Miss Derrick was agreeable, Miss Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archer said he was “leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room and commenced operations. I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the second dance. It was most enjoyable. There was a table at one end of the room on which was any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties, beers, syrups, and glasses, where all could regale themselves without ceremony or bother every time the inclination seized them. Several doors and windows of the long room opened into the garden, and, provided one had no fear of snakes, it was delightful to walk amid the flowers and cool oneself between dances. A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard. I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.” “Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.” He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership with which Harold drew near annoyed me, or, as Sunday-school teachers would explain it, Satan got hold of me. He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on the table beneath my hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing his lips to mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strength right across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have smashed my arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was impossible. It had left a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin. His moustache had saved his lips, but it had caught his nose, the left cheek, had blinded the left eye, and had left a cut on the temple from which drops of blood were rolling down his cheek and staining his white coat. A momentary gleam of anger shot into his eyes and he gave a gasp, whether of surprise, pain, or annoyance, I know not. He made a gesture towards me. I half expected and fervently wished he would strike. The enormity of what I had done paralysed me. The whip fell from my fingers and I dropped on to a low lounge behind me, and placing my elbows on my knees crouchingly buried my face in my hands; my hair tumbled softly over my shoulders and reached the floor, as though to sympathetically curtain my humiliation. Oh, that Harold would thrash me severely! It would have infinitely relieved me. I had done a mean unwomanly thing in thus striking a man, who by his great strength and sex was debarred retaliation. I had committed a violation of self-respect and common decency; I had given a man an ignominious blow in the face with a riding-whip. And that man was Harold Beecham, who with all his strength and great stature was so wondrously gentle—who had always treated my whims and nonsense with something like the amused tolerance held by a great Newfoundland for the pranks of a kitten. The clock struck eleven. “A less stinging rebuke would have served your purpose. I had no idea that a simple caress from the man whose proposal of marriage you had just accepted would be considered such an unpardonable familiarity.” Harold’s voice fell clearly, calmly, cuttingly on the silence. He moved away to the other end of the room and I heard the sound of water. A desire filled me to tell him that I did not think he had attempted a familiarity, but that I had been mad. I wished to say I could not account for my action, but I was dumb. My tongue refused to work, and I felt as though I would choke. The splash of the water came from the other end of the room. I knew he must be suffering acute pain in his eye. A far lighter blow had kept me sleepless a whole night. A fear possessed me that I might have permanently injured his sight. The splash of water ceased. His footfall stopped beside me. I could feel he was within touching distance, but I did not move. Oh, the horrible stillness!
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hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard. I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.” “Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,”<|quote|>he replied.</|quote|>“Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.” He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership with which Harold drew near annoyed me, or, as Sunday-school teachers would explain it, Satan got hold of me. He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on the table beneath my hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing his lips to mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strength right across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have smashed my arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was impossible. It had left a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin. His moustache had saved his lips, but it had caught his nose, the left cheek, had blinded the
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My Brilliant Career
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said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.
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No speaker
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glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful
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Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful to me in some respects
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making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide
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by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it." 'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' "said she," 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.' "And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness." But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her attention was now called to the explanation of
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not." "Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs Smith. "He thinks Mrs Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it." 'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' "said she," 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.' "And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness." But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice and compassion. She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr Elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs Smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their
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application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject. You can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do." "Yes," said Anne, "you tell me nothing which does not accord with what I have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the details of cunning. The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me. I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr Elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never been satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. I should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not." "Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs Smith. "He thinks Mrs Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it." 'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' "said she," 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.' "And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness." But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice and compassion. She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr Elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs Smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. Mr Elliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths accordingly had been ruined. The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it. They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better not be tried; but
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that she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible, and altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a general idea, among Sir Walter's acquaintance, of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and as general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently, blind to the danger." Here Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and she continued-- "This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family, long before you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon your father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit in Camden Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in watching all that was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath for a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas, Colonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and the reports beginning to prevail. Now you are to understand, that time had worked a very material change in Mr Elliot's opinions as to the value of a baronetcy. Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a completely altered man. Having long had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is heir to. I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it is now a confirmed feeling. He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir William. You may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his friend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced; the resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former acquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give him the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of circumventing the lady if he found it material. This was agreed upon between the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel Wallis was to assist in every way that he could. He was to be introduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to be introduced. Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject. You can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do." "Yes," said Anne, "you tell me nothing which does not accord with what I have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the details of cunning. The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me. I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr Elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never been satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. I should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not." "Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs Smith. "He thinks Mrs Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it." 'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' "said she," 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.' "And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness." But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice and compassion. She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr Elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs Smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. Mr Elliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths accordingly had been ruined. The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it. They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better not be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was fully known. With a confidence in Mr Elliot's regard, more creditable to his feelings than his judgement, Mr Smith had appointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act, and the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her, in addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been such as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to without corresponding indignation. Anne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent applications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern resolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it might bring on her. It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime could have been worse. She had a great deal to listen to; all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence. Anne could perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind. There was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of particular irritation. She had good reason to believe that some property of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many years under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own incumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this property, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively rich. But there was nobody to stir in it. Mr Elliot would do nothing, and she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal exertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by her want of money. She had no natural connexions to assist her even with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance of the law. This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means. To feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be even weakening her claims, was hard to bear. It
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of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former acquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give him the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of circumventing the lady if he found it material. This was agreed upon between the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel Wallis was to assist in every way that he could. He was to be introduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to be introduced. Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject. You can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do." "Yes," said Anne, "you tell me nothing which does not accord with what I have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the details of cunning. The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me. I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr Elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never been satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. I should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not." "Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs Smith. "He thinks Mrs Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it." 'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' "said she," 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.' "And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this,"<|quote|>said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness.</|quote|>"It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness." But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice and compassion. She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr Elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs Smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. Mr Elliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths accordingly had been ruined. The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it. They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better not be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was fully known. With a confidence in Mr Elliot's regard, more creditable to his feelings than his judgement, Mr Smith had appointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act, and the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her, in addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been
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Persuasion
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"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"
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William Rodney
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not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little
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as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham s
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feeling that every one is at her feet, and so not realizing how she hurts that is, how rudely she behaves to people who haven t all her advantages. Still, to do her justice, she s no fool," he added, as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham s arm. "And did you tell her all this to-night?" Denham asked. "Oh dear me, no. I should never think of telling Katharine the truth about herself. That wouldn t do at all. One has to be in an attitude of
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it. It s not altogether her fault, poor girl. She lives, you know, one of those odious, self-centered lives at least, I think them odious for a woman feeding her wits upon everything, having control of everything, getting far too much her own way at home spoilt, in a sense, feeling that every one is at her feet, and so not realizing how she hurts that is, how rudely she behaves to people who haven t all her advantages. Still, to do her justice, she s no fool," he added, as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham s arm. "And did you tell her all this to-night?" Denham asked. "Oh dear me, no. I should never think of telling Katharine the truth about herself. That wouldn t do at all. One has to be in an attitude of adoration in order to get on with Katharine." "Now I ve learnt that she s refused to marry him why don t I go home?" Denham thought to himself. But he went on walking beside Rodney, and for a time they did not speak, though Rodney hummed snatches of a
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Embankment. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated, with a curious little chuckle. "No, Denham, I have no illusions about that young woman. I think I made that plain to her to-night. But don t run away with a false impression," he continued eagerly, turning and linking his arm through Denham s, as though to prevent him from escaping; and, thus compelled, Denham passed the monitory lamp-post, to which, in passing, he breathed an excuse, for how could he break away when Rodney s arm was actually linked in his? "You must not think that I have any bitterness against her far from it. It s not altogether her fault, poor girl. She lives, you know, one of those odious, self-centered lives at least, I think them odious for a woman feeding her wits upon everything, having control of everything, getting far too much her own way at home spoilt, in a sense, feeling that every one is at her feet, and so not realizing how she hurts that is, how rudely she behaves to people who haven t all her advantages. Still, to do her justice, she s no fool," he added, as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham s arm. "And did you tell her all this to-night?" Denham asked. "Oh dear me, no. I should never think of telling Katharine the truth about herself. That wouldn t do at all. One has to be in an attitude of adoration in order to get on with Katharine." "Now I ve learnt that she s refused to marry him why don t I go home?" Denham thought to himself. But he went on walking beside Rodney, and for a time they did not speak, though Rodney hummed snatches of a tune out of an opera by Mozart. A feeling of contempt and liking combine very naturally in the mind of one to whom another has just spoken unpremeditatedly, revealing rather more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal. Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney was, and at the same time Rodney began to think about Denham. "You re a slave like me, I suppose?" he asked. "A solicitor, yes." "I sometimes wonder why we don t chuck it. Why don t you emigrate, Denham? I should have thought that would suit you." "I ve a
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his own esteem. Reason bade him break from Rodney, who clearly tended to become confidential, before he had utterly lost touch with the problems of high philosophy. He looked along the road, and marked a lamp-post at a distance of some hundred yards, and decided that he would part from Rodney when they reached this point. "Yes, I like Mary; I don t see how one could help liking her," he remarked cautiously, with his eye on the lamp-post. "Ah, Denham, you re so different from me. You never give yourself away. I watched you this evening with Katharine Hilbery. My instinct is to trust the person I m talking to. That s why I m always being taken in, I suppose." Denham seemed to be pondering this statement of Rodney s, but, as a matter of fact, he was hardly conscious of Rodney and his revelations, and was only concerned to make him mention Katharine again before they reached the lamp-post. "Who s taken you in now?" he asked. "Katharine Hilbery?" Rodney stopped and once more began beating a kind of rhythm, as if he were marking a phrase in a symphony, upon the smooth stone balustrade of the Embankment. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated, with a curious little chuckle. "No, Denham, I have no illusions about that young woman. I think I made that plain to her to-night. But don t run away with a false impression," he continued eagerly, turning and linking his arm through Denham s, as though to prevent him from escaping; and, thus compelled, Denham passed the monitory lamp-post, to which, in passing, he breathed an excuse, for how could he break away when Rodney s arm was actually linked in his? "You must not think that I have any bitterness against her far from it. It s not altogether her fault, poor girl. She lives, you know, one of those odious, self-centered lives at least, I think them odious for a woman feeding her wits upon everything, having control of everything, getting far too much her own way at home spoilt, in a sense, feeling that every one is at her feet, and so not realizing how she hurts that is, how rudely she behaves to people who haven t all her advantages. Still, to do her justice, she s no fool," he added, as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham s arm. "And did you tell her all this to-night?" Denham asked. "Oh dear me, no. I should never think of telling Katharine the truth about herself. That wouldn t do at all. One has to be in an attitude of adoration in order to get on with Katharine." "Now I ve learnt that she s refused to marry him why don t I go home?" Denham thought to himself. But he went on walking beside Rodney, and for a time they did not speak, though Rodney hummed snatches of a tune out of an opera by Mozart. A feeling of contempt and liking combine very naturally in the mind of one to whom another has just spoken unpremeditatedly, revealing rather more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal. Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney was, and at the same time Rodney began to think about Denham. "You re a slave like me, I suppose?" he asked. "A solicitor, yes." "I sometimes wonder why we don t chuck it. Why don t you emigrate, Denham? I should have thought that would suit you." "I ve a family." "I m often on the point of going myself. And then I know I couldn t live without this" and he waved his hand towards the City of London, which wore, at this moment, the appearance of a town cut out of gray-blue cardboard, and pasted flat against the sky, which was of a deeper blue. "There are one or two people I m fond of, and there s a little good music, and a few pictures, now and then just enough to keep one dangling about here. Ah, but I couldn t live with savages! Are you fond of books? Music? Pictures? D you care at all for first editions? I ve got a few nice things up here, things I pick up cheap, for I can t afford to give what they ask." They had reached a small court of high eighteenth-century houses, in one of which Rodney had his rooms. They climbed a very steep staircase, through whose uncurtained windows the moonlight fell, illuminating the banisters with their twisted pillars, and the piles of plates set on the window-sills, and jars half-full of milk. Rodney s rooms were small, but the sitting-room window looked out into
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irrefutable. Rodney quieted down, and walked on in silence, until he perceived some one approaching him, who had something, either in his walk or his dress, which proclaimed that he was one of William s acquaintances before it was possible to tell which of them he was. It was Denham who, having parted from Sandys at the bottom of his staircase, was now walking to the Tube at Charing Cross, deep in the thoughts which his talk with Sandys had suggested. He had forgotten the meeting at Mary Datchet s rooms, he had forgotten Rodney, and metaphors and Elizabethan drama, and could have sworn that he had forgotten Katharine Hilbery, too, although that was more disputable. His mind was scaling the highest pinnacles of its alps, where there was only starlight and the untrodden snow. He cast strange eyes upon Rodney, as they encountered each other beneath a lamp-post. "Ha!" Rodney exclaimed. If he had been in full possession of his mind, Denham would probably have passed on with a salutation. But the shock of the interruption made him stand still, and before he knew what he was doing, he had turned and was walking with Rodney in obedience to Rodney s invitation to come to his rooms and have something to drink. Denham had no wish to drink with Rodney, but he followed him passively enough. Rodney was gratified by this obedience. He felt inclined to be communicative with this silent man, who possessed so obviously all the good masculine qualities in which Katharine now seemed lamentably deficient. "You do well, Denham," he began impulsively, "to have nothing to do with young women. I offer you my experience if one trusts them one invariably has cause to repent. Not that I have any reason at this moment," he added hastily, "to complain of them. It s a subject that crops up now and again for no particular reason. Miss Datchet, I dare say, is one of the exceptions. Do you like Miss Datchet?" These remarks indicated clearly enough that Rodney s nerves were in a state of irritation, and Denham speedily woke to the situation of the world as it had been one hour ago. He had last seen Rodney walking with Katharine. He could not help regretting the eagerness with which his mind returned to these interests, and fretted him with the old trivial anxieties. He sank in his own esteem. Reason bade him break from Rodney, who clearly tended to become confidential, before he had utterly lost touch with the problems of high philosophy. He looked along the road, and marked a lamp-post at a distance of some hundred yards, and decided that he would part from Rodney when they reached this point. "Yes, I like Mary; I don t see how one could help liking her," he remarked cautiously, with his eye on the lamp-post. "Ah, Denham, you re so different from me. You never give yourself away. I watched you this evening with Katharine Hilbery. My instinct is to trust the person I m talking to. That s why I m always being taken in, I suppose." Denham seemed to be pondering this statement of Rodney s, but, as a matter of fact, he was hardly conscious of Rodney and his revelations, and was only concerned to make him mention Katharine again before they reached the lamp-post. "Who s taken you in now?" he asked. "Katharine Hilbery?" Rodney stopped and once more began beating a kind of rhythm, as if he were marking a phrase in a symphony, upon the smooth stone balustrade of the Embankment. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated, with a curious little chuckle. "No, Denham, I have no illusions about that young woman. I think I made that plain to her to-night. But don t run away with a false impression," he continued eagerly, turning and linking his arm through Denham s, as though to prevent him from escaping; and, thus compelled, Denham passed the monitory lamp-post, to which, in passing, he breathed an excuse, for how could he break away when Rodney s arm was actually linked in his? "You must not think that I have any bitterness against her far from it. It s not altogether her fault, poor girl. She lives, you know, one of those odious, self-centered lives at least, I think them odious for a woman feeding her wits upon everything, having control of everything, getting far too much her own way at home spoilt, in a sense, feeling that every one is at her feet, and so not realizing how she hurts that is, how rudely she behaves to people who haven t all her advantages. Still, to do her justice, she s no fool," he added, as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham s arm. "And did you tell her all this to-night?" Denham asked. "Oh dear me, no. I should never think of telling Katharine the truth about herself. That wouldn t do at all. One has to be in an attitude of adoration in order to get on with Katharine." "Now I ve learnt that she s refused to marry him why don t I go home?" Denham thought to himself. But he went on walking beside Rodney, and for a time they did not speak, though Rodney hummed snatches of a tune out of an opera by Mozart. A feeling of contempt and liking combine very naturally in the mind of one to whom another has just spoken unpremeditatedly, revealing rather more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal. Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney was, and at the same time Rodney began to think about Denham. "You re a slave like me, I suppose?" he asked. "A solicitor, yes." "I sometimes wonder why we don t chuck it. Why don t you emigrate, Denham? I should have thought that would suit you." "I ve a family." "I m often on the point of going myself. And then I know I couldn t live without this" and he waved his hand towards the City of London, which wore, at this moment, the appearance of a town cut out of gray-blue cardboard, and pasted flat against the sky, which was of a deeper blue. "There are one or two people I m fond of, and there s a little good music, and a few pictures, now and then just enough to keep one dangling about here. Ah, but I couldn t live with savages! Are you fond of books? Music? Pictures? D you care at all for first editions? I ve got a few nice things up here, things I pick up cheap, for I can t afford to give what they ask." They had reached a small court of high eighteenth-century houses, in one of which Rodney had his rooms. They climbed a very steep staircase, through whose uncurtained windows the moonlight fell, illuminating the banisters with their twisted pillars, and the piles of plates set on the window-sills, and jars half-full of milk. Rodney s rooms were small, but the sitting-room window looked out into a courtyard, with its flagged pavement, and its single tree, and across to the flat red-brick fronts of the opposite houses, which would not have surprised Dr. Johnson, if he had come out of his grave for a turn in the moonlight. Rodney lit his lamp, pulled his curtains, offered Denham a chair, and, flinging the manuscript of his paper on the Elizabethan use of Metaphor on to the table, exclaimed: "Oh dear me, what a waste of time! But it s over now, and so we may think no more about it." He then busied himself very dexterously in lighting a fire, producing glasses, whisky, a cake, and cups and saucers. He put on a faded crimson dressing-gown, and a pair of red slippers, and advanced to Denham with a tumbler in one hand and a well-burnished book in the other. "The Baskerville Congreve," said Rodney, offering it to his guest. "I couldn t read him in a cheap edition." When he was seen thus among his books and his valuables, amiably anxious to make his visitor comfortable, and moving about with something of the dexterity and grace of a Persian cat, Denham relaxed his critical attitude, and felt more at home with Rodney than he would have done with many men better known to him. Rodney s room was the room of a person who cherishes a great many personal tastes, guarding them from the rough blasts of the public with scrupulous attention. His papers and his books rose in jagged mounds on table and floor, round which he skirted with nervous care lest his dressing-gown might disarrange them ever so slightly. On a chair stood a stack of photographs of statues and pictures, which it was his habit to exhibit, one by one, for the space of a day or two. The books on his shelves were as orderly as regiments of soldiers, and the backs of them shone like so many bronze beetle-wings; though, if you took one from its place you saw a shabbier volume behind it, since space was limited. An oval Venetian mirror stood above the fireplace, and reflected duskily in its spotted depths the faint yellow and crimson of a jarful of tulips which stood among the letters and pipes and cigarettes upon the mantelpiece. A small piano occupied a corner of the room, with the score of "Don Giovanni" open upon
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his eye on the lamp-post. "Ah, Denham, you re so different from me. You never give yourself away. I watched you this evening with Katharine Hilbery. My instinct is to trust the person I m talking to. That s why I m always being taken in, I suppose." Denham seemed to be pondering this statement of Rodney s, but, as a matter of fact, he was hardly conscious of Rodney and his revelations, and was only concerned to make him mention Katharine again before they reached the lamp-post. "Who s taken you in now?" he asked. "Katharine Hilbery?" Rodney stopped and once more began beating a kind of rhythm, as if he were marking a phrase in a symphony, upon the smooth stone balustrade of the Embankment. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated, with a curious little chuckle. "No, Denham, I have no illusions about that young woman. I think I made that plain to her to-night. But don t run away with a false impression," he continued eagerly, turning and linking his arm through Denham s, as though to prevent him from escaping; and, thus compelled, Denham passed the monitory lamp-post, to which, in passing, he breathed an excuse, for how could he break away when Rodney s arm was actually linked in his? "You must not think that I have any bitterness against her far from it. It s not altogether her fault, poor girl. She lives, you know, one of those odious, self-centered lives at least, I think them odious for a woman feeding her wits upon everything, having control of everything, getting far too much her own way at home spoilt, in a sense, feeling that every one is at her feet, and so not realizing how she hurts that is, how rudely she behaves to people who haven t all her advantages. Still, to do her justice, she s no fool," he added, as if to warn Denham not to take any liberties.<|quote|>"She has taste. She has sense. She can understand you when you talk to her. But she s a woman, and there s an end of it,"</|quote|>he added, with another little chuckle, and dropped Denham s arm. "And did you tell her all this to-night?" Denham asked. "Oh dear me, no. I should never think of telling Katharine the truth about herself. That wouldn t do at all. One has to be in an attitude of adoration in order to get on with Katharine." "Now I ve learnt that she s refused to marry him why don t I go home?" Denham thought to himself. But he went on walking beside Rodney, and for a time they did not speak, though Rodney hummed snatches of a tune out of an opera by Mozart. A feeling of contempt and liking combine very naturally in the mind of one to whom another has just spoken unpremeditatedly, revealing rather more of his private feelings than he intended to reveal. Denham began to wonder what sort of person Rodney was, and at the same time Rodney began to think about Denham. "You re a slave like me, I suppose?" he asked. "A solicitor, yes." "I sometimes wonder why we don t chuck it. Why don t you emigrate, Denham? I should have thought that would suit you." "I ve a family." "I
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Night And Day
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"Of course we must tell Irma!"
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Mr. Herriton
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it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said
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But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said his mother. "But I think
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she always felt that the dead deserve attention and sympathy. "After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake for nights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where no one is in the right. But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said his mother. "But I think we can still not tell her about Lilia s marriage." "I don t think that. And she must have suspected something by now." "So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, and little girls of nine
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who saw a trying little period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united. "Are we to go into mourning, do you think?" She always asked her children s advice where possible. Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Lilia while she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attention and sympathy. "After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake for nights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where no one is in the right. But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said his mother. "But I think we can still not tell her about Lilia s marriage." "I don t think that. And she must have suspected something by now." "So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, and little girls of nine don t reason clearly. She looks on it as a long visit. And it is important, most important, that she should not receive a shock. All a child s life depends on the ideal it has of its parents. Destroy that and everything goes--morals, behaviour, everything. Absolute trust in some
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he laughed on contentedly, till Lilia s marriage toppled contentment down for ever. Italy, the land of beauty, was ruined for him. She had no power to change men and things who dwelt in her. She, too, could produce avarice, brutality, stupidity--and, what was worse, vulgarity. It was on her soil and through her influence that a silly woman had married a cad. He hated Gino, the betrayer of his life s ideal, and now that the sordid tragedy had come, it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but of final disillusion. The disillusion was convenient for Mrs. Herriton, who saw a trying little period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united. "Are we to go into mourning, do you think?" She always asked her children s advice where possible. Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Lilia while she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attention and sympathy. "After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake for nights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where no one is in the right. But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said his mother. "But I think we can still not tell her about Lilia s marriage." "I don t think that. And she must have suspected something by now." "So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, and little girls of nine don t reason clearly. She looks on it as a long visit. And it is important, most important, that she should not receive a shock. All a child s life depends on the ideal it has of its parents. Destroy that and everything goes--morals, behaviour, everything. Absolute trust in some one else is the essence of education. That is why I have been so careful about talking of poor Lilia before her." "But you forget this wretched baby. Waters and Adamson write that there is a baby." "Mrs. Theobald must be told. But she doesn t count. She is breaking up very quickly. She doesn t even see Mr. Kingcroft now. He, thank goodness, I hear, has at last consoled himself with someone else." "The child must know some time," persisted Philip, who felt a little displeased, though he could not tell with what. "The later the better. Every moment
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wear parti-coloured ties and a squashy hat, to be late for dinner on account of the sunset, and to catch art from Burne-Jones to Praxiteles. At twenty-two he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbed into one aesthetic whole olive-trees, blue sky, frescoes, country inns, saints, peasants, mosaics, statues, beggars. He came back with the air of a prophet who would either remodel Sawston or reject it. All the energies and enthusiasms of a rather friendless life had passed into the championship of beauty. In a short time it was over. Nothing had happened either in Sawston or within himself. He had shocked half-a-dozen people, squabbled with his sister, and bickered with his mother. He concluded that nothing could happen, not knowing that human love and love of truth sometimes conquer where love of beauty fails. A little disenchanted, a little tired, but aesthetically intact, he resumed his placid life, relying more and more on his second gift, the gift of humour. If he could not reform the world, he could at all events laugh at it, thus attaining at least an intellectual superiority. Laughter, he read and believed, was a sign of good moral health, and he laughed on contentedly, till Lilia s marriage toppled contentment down for ever. Italy, the land of beauty, was ruined for him. She had no power to change men and things who dwelt in her. She, too, could produce avarice, brutality, stupidity--and, what was worse, vulgarity. It was on her soil and through her influence that a silly woman had married a cad. He hated Gino, the betrayer of his life s ideal, and now that the sordid tragedy had come, it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but of final disillusion. The disillusion was convenient for Mrs. Herriton, who saw a trying little period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united. "Are we to go into mourning, do you think?" She always asked her children s advice where possible. Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Lilia while she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attention and sympathy. "After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake for nights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where no one is in the right. But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said his mother. "But I think we can still not tell her about Lilia s marriage." "I don t think that. And she must have suspected something by now." "So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, and little girls of nine don t reason clearly. She looks on it as a long visit. And it is important, most important, that she should not receive a shock. All a child s life depends on the ideal it has of its parents. Destroy that and everything goes--morals, behaviour, everything. Absolute trust in some one else is the essence of education. That is why I have been so careful about talking of poor Lilia before her." "But you forget this wretched baby. Waters and Adamson write that there is a baby." "Mrs. Theobald must be told. But she doesn t count. She is breaking up very quickly. She doesn t even see Mr. Kingcroft now. He, thank goodness, I hear, has at last consoled himself with someone else." "The child must know some time," persisted Philip, who felt a little displeased, though he could not tell with what. "The later the better. Every moment she is developing." "I must say it seems rather hard luck, doesn t it?" "On Irma? Why?" "On us, perhaps. We have morals and behaviour also, and I don t think this continual secrecy improves them." "There s no need to twist the thing round to that," said Harriet, rather disturbed. "Of course there isn t," said her mother. "Let s keep to the main issue. This baby s quite beside the point. Mrs. Theobald will do nothing, and it s no concern of ours." "It will make a difference in the money, surely," said he. "No, dear; very little. Poor Charles provided for every kind of contingency in his will. The money will come to you and Harriet, as Irma s guardians." "Good. Does the Italian get anything?" "He will get all hers. But you know what that is." "Good. So those are our tactics--to tell no one about the baby, not even Miss Abbott." "Most certainly this is the proper course," said Mrs. Herriton, preferring "course" to "tactics" for Harriet s sake. "And why ever should we tell Caroline?" "She was so mixed up in the affair." "Poor silly creature. The less she hears about it the better
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him company in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her in the darkened room. "My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never loved any one but you." She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by suffering to make sarcastic repartees. Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, "I have prayed all night for a boy." Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, "You are a boy yourself, Gino." He answered, "Then we shall be brothers." He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When they came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, and his face was wet with tears. As for Lilia, some one said to her, "It is a beautiful boy!" But she had died in giving birth to him. Chapter 5 At the time of Lilia s death Philip Herriton was just twenty-four years of age--indeed the news reached Sawston on his birthday. He was a tall, weakly-built young man, whose clothes had to be judiciously padded on the shoulders in order to make him pass muster. His face was plain rather than not, and there was a curious mixture in it of good and bad. He had a fine forehead and a good large nose, and both observation and sympathy were in his eyes. But below the nose and eyes all was confusion, and those people who believe that destiny resides in the mouth and chin shook their heads when they looked at him. Philip himself, as a boy, had been keenly conscious of these defects. Sometimes when he had been bullied or hustled about at school he would retire to his cubicle and examine his features in a looking-glass, and he would sigh and say, "It is a weak face. I shall never carve a place for myself in the world." But as years went on he became either less self-conscious or more self-satisfied. The world, he found, made a niche for him as it did for every one. Decision of character might come later--or he might have it without knowing. At all events he had got a sense of beauty and a sense of humour, two most desirable gifts. The sense of beauty developed first. It caused him at the age of twenty to wear parti-coloured ties and a squashy hat, to be late for dinner on account of the sunset, and to catch art from Burne-Jones to Praxiteles. At twenty-two he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbed into one aesthetic whole olive-trees, blue sky, frescoes, country inns, saints, peasants, mosaics, statues, beggars. He came back with the air of a prophet who would either remodel Sawston or reject it. All the energies and enthusiasms of a rather friendless life had passed into the championship of beauty. In a short time it was over. Nothing had happened either in Sawston or within himself. He had shocked half-a-dozen people, squabbled with his sister, and bickered with his mother. He concluded that nothing could happen, not knowing that human love and love of truth sometimes conquer where love of beauty fails. A little disenchanted, a little tired, but aesthetically intact, he resumed his placid life, relying more and more on his second gift, the gift of humour. If he could not reform the world, he could at all events laugh at it, thus attaining at least an intellectual superiority. Laughter, he read and believed, was a sign of good moral health, and he laughed on contentedly, till Lilia s marriage toppled contentment down for ever. Italy, the land of beauty, was ruined for him. She had no power to change men and things who dwelt in her. She, too, could produce avarice, brutality, stupidity--and, what was worse, vulgarity. It was on her soil and through her influence that a silly woman had married a cad. He hated Gino, the betrayer of his life s ideal, and now that the sordid tragedy had come, it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but of final disillusion. The disillusion was convenient for Mrs. Herriton, who saw a trying little period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united. "Are we to go into mourning, do you think?" She always asked her children s advice where possible. Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Lilia while she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attention and sympathy. "After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake for nights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where no one is in the right. But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said his mother. "But I think we can still not tell her about Lilia s marriage." "I don t think that. And she must have suspected something by now." "So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, and little girls of nine don t reason clearly. She looks on it as a long visit. And it is important, most important, that she should not receive a shock. All a child s life depends on the ideal it has of its parents. Destroy that and everything goes--morals, behaviour, everything. Absolute trust in some one else is the essence of education. That is why I have been so careful about talking of poor Lilia before her." "But you forget this wretched baby. Waters and Adamson write that there is a baby." "Mrs. Theobald must be told. But she doesn t count. She is breaking up very quickly. She doesn t even see Mr. Kingcroft now. He, thank goodness, I hear, has at last consoled himself with someone else." "The child must know some time," persisted Philip, who felt a little displeased, though he could not tell with what. "The later the better. Every moment she is developing." "I must say it seems rather hard luck, doesn t it?" "On Irma? Why?" "On us, perhaps. We have morals and behaviour also, and I don t think this continual secrecy improves them." "There s no need to twist the thing round to that," said Harriet, rather disturbed. "Of course there isn t," said her mother. "Let s keep to the main issue. This baby s quite beside the point. Mrs. Theobald will do nothing, and it s no concern of ours." "It will make a difference in the money, surely," said he. "No, dear; very little. Poor Charles provided for every kind of contingency in his will. The money will come to you and Harriet, as Irma s guardians." "Good. Does the Italian get anything?" "He will get all hers. But you know what that is." "Good. So those are our tactics--to tell no one about the baby, not even Miss Abbott." "Most certainly this is the proper course," said Mrs. Herriton, preferring "course" to "tactics" for Harriet s sake. "And why ever should we tell Caroline?" "She was so mixed up in the affair." "Poor silly creature. The less she hears about it the better she will be pleased. I have come to be very sorry for Caroline. She, if any one, has suffered and been penitent. She burst into tears when I told her a little, only a little, of that terrible letter. I never saw such genuine remorse. We must forgive her and forget. Let the dead bury their dead. We will not trouble her with them." Philip saw that his mother was scarcely logical. But there was no advantage in saying so. "Here beginneth the New Life, then. Do you remember, mother, that was what we said when we saw Lilia off?" "Yes, dear; but now it is really a New Life, because we are all at accord. Then you were still infatuated with Italy. It may be full of beautiful pictures and churches, but we cannot judge a country by anything but its men." "That is quite true," he said sadly. And as the tactics were now settled, he went out and took an aimless and solitary walk. By the time he came back two important things had happened. Irma had been told of her mother s death, and Miss Abbott, who had called for a subscription, had been told also. Irma had wept loudly, had asked a few sensible questions and a good many silly ones, and had been content with evasive answers. Fortunately the school prize-giving was at hand, and that, together with the prospect of new black clothes, kept her from meditating on the fact that Lilia, who had been absent so long, would now be absent for ever. "As for Caroline," said Mrs. Herriton, "I was almost frightened. She broke down utterly. She cried even when she left the house. I comforted her as best I could, and I kissed her. It is something that the breach between her and ourselves is now entirely healed." "Did she ask no questions--as to the nature of Lilia s death, I mean?" "She did. But she has a mind of extraordinary delicacy. She saw that I was reticent, and she did not press me. You see, Philip, I can say to you what I could not say before Harriet. Her ideas are so crude. Really we do not want it known in Sawston that there is a baby. All peace and comfort would be lost if people came inquiring after it." His mother knew how to manage him. He agreed
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nose and eyes all was confusion, and those people who believe that destiny resides in the mouth and chin shook their heads when they looked at him. Philip himself, as a boy, had been keenly conscious of these defects. Sometimes when he had been bullied or hustled about at school he would retire to his cubicle and examine his features in a looking-glass, and he would sigh and say, "It is a weak face. I shall never carve a place for myself in the world." But as years went on he became either less self-conscious or more self-satisfied. The world, he found, made a niche for him as it did for every one. Decision of character might come later--or he might have it without knowing. At all events he had got a sense of beauty and a sense of humour, two most desirable gifts. The sense of beauty developed first. It caused him at the age of twenty to wear parti-coloured ties and a squashy hat, to be late for dinner on account of the sunset, and to catch art from Burne-Jones to Praxiteles. At twenty-two he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbed into one aesthetic whole olive-trees, blue sky, frescoes, country inns, saints, peasants, mosaics, statues, beggars. He came back with the air of a prophet who would either remodel Sawston or reject it. All the energies and enthusiasms of a rather friendless life had passed into the championship of beauty. In a short time it was over. Nothing had happened either in Sawston or within himself. He had shocked half-a-dozen people, squabbled with his sister, and bickered with his mother. He concluded that nothing could happen, not knowing that human love and love of truth sometimes conquer where love of beauty fails. A little disenchanted, a little tired, but aesthetically intact, he resumed his placid life, relying more and more on his second gift, the gift of humour. If he could not reform the world, he could at all events laugh at it, thus attaining at least an intellectual superiority. Laughter, he read and believed, was a sign of good moral health, and he laughed on contentedly, till Lilia s marriage toppled contentment down for ever. Italy, the land of beauty, was ruined for him. She had no power to change men and things who dwelt in her. She, too, could produce avarice, brutality, stupidity--and, what was worse, vulgarity. It was on her soil and through her influence that a silly woman had married a cad. He hated Gino, the betrayer of his life s ideal, and now that the sordid tragedy had come, it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but of final disillusion. The disillusion was convenient for Mrs. Herriton, who saw a trying little period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united. "Are we to go into mourning, do you think?" She always asked her children s advice where possible. Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Lilia while she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attention and sympathy. "After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake for nights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where no one is in the right. But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma."<|quote|>"Of course we must tell Irma!"</|quote|>said Philip. "Of course," said his mother. "But I think we can still not tell her about Lilia s marriage." "I don t think that. And she must have suspected something by now." "So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, and little girls of nine don t reason clearly. She looks on it as a long visit. And it is important, most important, that she should not receive a shock. All a child s life depends on the ideal it has of its parents. Destroy that and everything goes--morals, behaviour, everything. Absolute trust in some one else is the essence of education. That is why I have been so careful about talking of poor Lilia before her." "But you forget this wretched baby. Waters and Adamson write that there is a baby." "Mrs. Theobald must be told. But she doesn t count. She is breaking up very quickly. She doesn t even see Mr. Kingcroft now. He, thank goodness, I hear, has at last consoled himself with someone else." "The child must know some time," persisted Philip, who felt a little displeased, though he could not tell with what. "The later the better. Every moment she is developing." "I must say it seems rather hard luck, doesn t it?" "On Irma? Why?" "On us, perhaps. We have morals and behaviour also, and I don t think this continual secrecy improves them." "There s no need to twist the thing round to that," said Harriet, rather disturbed. "Of course there isn t," said her mother. "Let s keep to the main issue. This baby s quite beside the point. Mrs. Theobald will do nothing, and it s no concern of ours." "It will make a difference in the money, surely," said he. "No, dear;
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."
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Edmund
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do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify.
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its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it,
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I mourn your fate unmerited.'" He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny." "I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered." "I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?" "The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and
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Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at him, and said in a low voice "Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'" He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny." "I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered." "I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?" "The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say,
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much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming to reply "The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of Sotherton." Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at him, and said in a low voice "Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'" He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny." "I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered." "I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?" "The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well." Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it." "I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired progressively.
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the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton." "Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine weather." Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his heart. "Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming to reply "The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of Sotherton." Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at him, and said in a low voice "Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'" He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny." "I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered." "I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?" "The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well." Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it." "I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own blunders than by his." "_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it was complete." "It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all," said Fanny. "Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for three months we were all
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it. You young ones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to talk of. If it had not been for _that_, we should have carried on the garden wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were always doing something as it was. It was only the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting to such perfection, sir," addressing herself then to Dr. Grant. "The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam," replied Dr. Grant. "The soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble of gathering." "Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost us that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill and I know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park." "You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant: "these potatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree. It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which none from my garden are." "The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris, "that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves, my cook contrives to get them all." Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton. Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar. After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again. "Smith's place is the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton." "Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine weather." Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next his heart. "Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming to reply "The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of Sotherton." Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at him, and said in a low voice "Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'" He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny." "I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered." "I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?" "The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well." Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it." "I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own blunders than by his." "_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it was complete." "It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all," said Fanny. "Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of my education; and the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to step on, or a bench fit for use. I would have everything as complete as possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic seats innumerable: but it must all be done without my care. Henry is different; he loves to be doing." Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and liveliness to put the matter by for the present. "Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have tidings of my harp at last. I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often received to the contrary." Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise. "The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant, we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's son-in-law left word at the shop." "I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope there will be no further delay." "I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow." "You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?" "I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible thing in the world; had offended
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I think, if so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming to reply "The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I really know very little of Sotherton." Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at him, and said in a low voice "Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper? Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'" He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny." "I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."<|quote|>"Have you never been there? No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could contrive it."</|quote|>"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how it has been altered." "I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style of building?" "The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well." Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it." "I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired progressively. I would rather abide by my own blunders than by his." "_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not suit _me_. I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they are before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till it was complete." "It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all," said
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Mansfield Park
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"It's quite a cruelty,"
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Mrs. Bolter
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feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is,"
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'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer
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sufficiently accounted. "Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; only this one." "What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer fond of oysters?" "Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself." "Lor!" said Noah, reflectively; "how queer!" "Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!" "I
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a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted. "Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; only this one." "What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer fond of oysters?" "Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself." "Lor!" said Noah, reflectively; "how queer!" "Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!" "I can't manage any more," said Noah. "I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer." "What!" said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir." Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than
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he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted. "Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; only this one." "What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer fond of oysters?" "Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself." "Lor!" said Noah, reflectively; "how queer!" "Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!" "I can't manage any more," said Noah. "I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer." "What!" said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir." Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror. "Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!" said Mr. Bumble. "How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. "Faugh!" "I didn't mean to do it!" said Noah, blubbering. "She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not." "Oh, Noah," cried Charlotte, reproachfully. "Yer are; yer know yer are!" retorted Noah. "She's always a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and
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having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted. "Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; only this one." "What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer fond of oysters?" "Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself." "Lor!" said Noah, reflectively; "how queer!" "Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!" "I can't manage any more," said Noah. "I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer." "What!" said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir." Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror. "Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!" said Mr. Bumble. "How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. "Faugh!" "I didn't mean to do it!" said Noah, blubbering. "She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not." "Oh, Noah," cried Charlotte, reproachfully. "Yer are; yer know yer are!" retorted Noah. "She's always a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!" "Silence!" cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. "Take yourself downstairs, ma'am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!" cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. "The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don't take their abominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!" With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's premises. And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him. CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES "Wolves tear your throats!" muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. "I wish I was among some of you; you'd howl the hoarser
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this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!" Mrs. Corney sobbed. "The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. "The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?" "Ye ye yes!" sighed out the matron. "One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?" Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was "a irresistible duck." Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. "Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?" "It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!" interposed the lady, hastily. "If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!" Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted. "Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; only this one." "What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer fond of oysters?" "Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself." "Lor!" said Noah, reflectively; "how queer!" "Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!" "I can't manage any more," said Noah. "I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer." "What!" said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir." Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror. "Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!" said Mr. Bumble. "How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. "Faugh!" "I didn't mean to do it!" said Noah, blubbering. "She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not." "Oh, Noah," cried Charlotte, reproachfully. "Yer are; yer know yer are!" retorted Noah. "She's always a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!" "Silence!" cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. "Take yourself downstairs, ma'am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!" cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. "The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don't take their abominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!" With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's premises. And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him. CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES "Wolves tear your throats!" muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. "I wish I was among some of you; you'd howl the hoarser for it." As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look back at his pursuers. There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction. "Stop, you white-livered hound!" cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. "Stop!" The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood to be played with. "Bear a hand with the boy," cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. "Come back!" Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along. "Quicker!" cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol from his pocket. "Don't play booty with me." At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them. "It's all up, Bill!" cried Toby; "drop the kid, and show 'em your heels." With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone. "Ho, ho, there!" cried a tremulous voice in the rear. "Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!" The dogs, who, in common
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accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted. "Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; only this one." "What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"<|quote|>"It's quite a cruelty,"</|quote|>said Charlotte. "So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "An't yer fond of oysters?" "Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself." "Lor!" said Noah, reflectively; "how queer!" "Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!" "I can't manage any more," said Noah. "I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer." "What!" said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir." Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror. "Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!" said Mr. Bumble. "How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. "Faugh!" "I didn't mean to do it!" said Noah, blubbering. "She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not." "Oh, Noah," cried Charlotte, reproachfully. "Yer are; yer know yer are!" retorted Noah. "She's always a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!" "Silence!" cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. "Take yourself downstairs, ma'am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!" cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. "The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don't take their abominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!" With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's premises. And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him. CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES "Wolves tear your throats!" muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. "I wish I was among some of you; you'd howl the hoarser for it." As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look back at his pursuers. There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.
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Oliver Twist
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"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"
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Mr. Hastings
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favour?" Poirot shook his head.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>Poirot smiled. "That was for
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made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>Poirot smiled. "That was for a reason. I did not
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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.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>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,
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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.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>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. "That is all my business." "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
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ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, 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.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>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. "That is all my business." "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
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all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, 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.<|quote|>"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"</|quote|>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. "That is all my business." "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,
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,
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No speaker
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"Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing
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watch polo either, I'm sure." "Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing about with Indians any more!
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is pledged to nothing," said Mrs. Moore, rather unexpectedly. "Certainly not to this polo. Will you drive up to the bungalow first, and drop me there, please? I prefer to rest." "Drop me too," said Adela. "I don't want to watch polo either, I'm sure." "Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing about with Indians any more! If you want to go to the Marabar Caves, you'll go under British auspices." "I've never heard of these caves, I don't know what or where they are," said Mrs. Moore, "but I really can't have" she tapped the cushion
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the race. Similarly, to meet' in the caves as if they were the clock at Charing Cross, when they're miles from a station and each other." "Have you been to them?" "No, but I know all about them, naturally." "Oh naturally!" "Are you too pledged to this expedition, mother?" "Mother is pledged to nothing," said Mrs. Moore, rather unexpectedly. "Certainly not to this polo. Will you drive up to the bungalow first, and drop me there, please? I prefer to rest." "Drop me too," said Adela. "I don't want to watch polo either, I'm sure." "Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing about with Indians any more! If you want to go to the Marabar Caves, you'll go under British auspices." "I've never heard of these caves, I don't know what or where they are," said Mrs. Moore, "but I really can't have" she tapped the cushion beside her "so much quarrelling and tiresomeness!" The young people were ashamed. They dropped her at the bungalow and drove on together to the polo, feeling it was the least they could do. Their crackling bad humour left them, but the heaviness of their spirit remained; thunderstorms seldom clear the
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party." "Out where?" asked Ronny. "The Marabar Caves." "Well, I'm blessed," he murmured after a pause. "Did he descend to any details?" "He did not. If you had spoken to him, we could have arranged them." He shook his head laughing. "Have I said anything funny?" "I was only thinking how the worthy doctor's collar climbed up his neck." "I thought you were discussing the caves." "So I am. Aziz was exquisitely dressed, from tie-pin to spats, but he had forgotten his back collar-stud, and there you have the Indian all over: inattention to detail; the fundamental slackness that reveals the race. Similarly, to meet' in the caves as if they were the clock at Charing Cross, when they're miles from a station and each other." "Have you been to them?" "No, but I know all about them, naturally." "Oh naturally!" "Are you too pledged to this expedition, mother?" "Mother is pledged to nothing," said Mrs. Moore, rather unexpectedly. "Certainly not to this polo. Will you drive up to the bungalow first, and drop me there, please? I prefer to rest." "Drop me too," said Adela. "I don't want to watch polo either, I'm sure." "Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing about with Indians any more! If you want to go to the Marabar Caves, you'll go under British auspices." "I've never heard of these caves, I don't know what or where they are," said Mrs. Moore, "but I really can't have" she tapped the cushion beside her "so much quarrelling and tiresomeness!" The young people were ashamed. They dropped her at the bungalow and drove on together to the polo, feeling it was the least they could do. Their crackling bad humour left them, but the heaviness of their spirit remained; thunderstorms seldom clear the air. Miss Quested was thinking over her own behaviour, and didn't like it at all. Instead of weighing Ronny and herself, and coming to a reasoned conclusion about marriage, she had incidentally, in the course of a talk about mangoes, remarked to mixed company that she didn't mean to stop in India. Which meant that she wouldn't marry Ronny: but what a way to announce it, what a way for a civilized girl to behave! She owed him an explanation, but unfortunately there was nothing to explain. The "thorough talk" so dear to her principles and temperament had been postponed
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above Ronny there stretched the higher realms of knowledge, inhabited by Callendars and Turtons, who had been not one year in the country but twenty and whose instincts were superhuman. For himself he made no extravagant claims; she wished he would. It was the qualified bray of the callow official, the "I am not perfect, but " that got on her nerves. How gross he had been at Mr. Fielding's spoiling the talk and walking off in the middle of the haunting song! As he drove them away in the tum-tum, her irritation became unbearable, and she did not realize that much of it was directed against herself. She longed for an opportunity to fly out at him, and since he felt cross too, and they were both in India, an opportunity soon occurred. They had scarcely left the College grounds before she heard him say to his mother, who was with him on the front seat, "What was that about caves?" and she promptly opened fire. "Mrs. Moore, your delightful doctor has decided on a picnic, instead of a party in his house; we are to meet him out there you, myself, Mr. Fielding, Professor Godbole exactly the same party." "Out where?" asked Ronny. "The Marabar Caves." "Well, I'm blessed," he murmured after a pause. "Did he descend to any details?" "He did not. If you had spoken to him, we could have arranged them." He shook his head laughing. "Have I said anything funny?" "I was only thinking how the worthy doctor's collar climbed up his neck." "I thought you were discussing the caves." "So I am. Aziz was exquisitely dressed, from tie-pin to spats, but he had forgotten his back collar-stud, and there you have the Indian all over: inattention to detail; the fundamental slackness that reveals the race. Similarly, to meet' in the caves as if they were the clock at Charing Cross, when they're miles from a station and each other." "Have you been to them?" "No, but I know all about them, naturally." "Oh naturally!" "Are you too pledged to this expedition, mother?" "Mother is pledged to nothing," said Mrs. Moore, rather unexpectedly. "Certainly not to this polo. Will you drive up to the bungalow first, and drop me there, please? I prefer to rest." "Drop me too," said Adela. "I don't want to watch polo either, I'm sure." "Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing about with Indians any more! If you want to go to the Marabar Caves, you'll go under British auspices." "I've never heard of these caves, I don't know what or where they are," said Mrs. Moore, "but I really can't have" she tapped the cushion beside her "so much quarrelling and tiresomeness!" The young people were ashamed. They dropped her at the bungalow and drove on together to the polo, feeling it was the least they could do. Their crackling bad humour left them, but the heaviness of their spirit remained; thunderstorms seldom clear the air. Miss Quested was thinking over her own behaviour, and didn't like it at all. Instead of weighing Ronny and herself, and coming to a reasoned conclusion about marriage, she had incidentally, in the course of a talk about mangoes, remarked to mixed company that she didn't mean to stop in India. Which meant that she wouldn't marry Ronny: but what a way to announce it, what a way for a civilized girl to behave! She owed him an explanation, but unfortunately there was nothing to explain. The "thorough talk" so dear to her principles and temperament had been postponed until too late. There seemed no point in being disagreeable to him and formulating her complaints against his character at this hour of the day, which was the evening. . . . The polo took place on the Maidan near the entrance of Chandrapore city. The sun was already declining and each of the trees held a premonition of night. They walked away from the governing group to a distant seat, and there, feeling that it was his due and her own, she forced out of herself the undigested remark: "We must have a thorough talk, Ronny, I'm afraid." "My temper's rotten, I must apologize," was his reply. "I didn't mean to order you and mother about, but of course the way those Bengalis let you down this morning annoyed me, and I don't want that sort of thing to keep happening." "It's nothing to do with them that I . . ." "No, but Aziz would make some similar muddle over the caves. He meant nothing by the invitation, I could tell by his voice; it's just their way of being pleasant." "It's something very different, nothing to do with caves, that I wanted to talk over with you."
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delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant. "Thanks so much: what was that?" asked Fielding. "I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna," Come! come to me only.' "The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say:" Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.' "He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present hour, which is the evening." "But He comes in some other song, I hope?" said Mrs. Moore gently. "Oh no, he refuses to come," repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. "I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come." Ronny's steps had died away, and there was a moment of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no leaf stirred. CHAPTER VIII Although Miss Quested had known Ronny well in England, she felt well advised to visit him before deciding to be his wife. India had developed sides of his character that she had never admired. His self-complacency, his censoriousness, his lack of subtlety, all grew vivid beneath a tropic sky; he seemed more indifferent than of old to what was passing in the minds of his fellows, more certain that he was right about them or that if he was wrong it didn't matter. When proved wrong, he was particularly exasperating; he always managed to suggest that she needn't have bothered to prove it. The point she made was never the relevant point, her arguments conclusive but barren, she was reminded that he had expert knowledge and she none, and that experience would not help her because she could not interpret it. A Public School, London University, a year at a crammer's, a particular sequence of posts in a particular province, a fall from a horse and a touch of fever were presented to her as the only training by which Indians and all who reside in their country can be understood; the only training she could comprehend, that is to say, for of course above Ronny there stretched the higher realms of knowledge, inhabited by Callendars and Turtons, who had been not one year in the country but twenty and whose instincts were superhuman. For himself he made no extravagant claims; she wished he would. It was the qualified bray of the callow official, the "I am not perfect, but " that got on her nerves. How gross he had been at Mr. Fielding's spoiling the talk and walking off in the middle of the haunting song! As he drove them away in the tum-tum, her irritation became unbearable, and she did not realize that much of it was directed against herself. She longed for an opportunity to fly out at him, and since he felt cross too, and they were both in India, an opportunity soon occurred. They had scarcely left the College grounds before she heard him say to his mother, who was with him on the front seat, "What was that about caves?" and she promptly opened fire. "Mrs. Moore, your delightful doctor has decided on a picnic, instead of a party in his house; we are to meet him out there you, myself, Mr. Fielding, Professor Godbole exactly the same party." "Out where?" asked Ronny. "The Marabar Caves." "Well, I'm blessed," he murmured after a pause. "Did he descend to any details?" "He did not. If you had spoken to him, we could have arranged them." He shook his head laughing. "Have I said anything funny?" "I was only thinking how the worthy doctor's collar climbed up his neck." "I thought you were discussing the caves." "So I am. Aziz was exquisitely dressed, from tie-pin to spats, but he had forgotten his back collar-stud, and there you have the Indian all over: inattention to detail; the fundamental slackness that reveals the race. Similarly, to meet' in the caves as if they were the clock at Charing Cross, when they're miles from a station and each other." "Have you been to them?" "No, but I know all about them, naturally." "Oh naturally!" "Are you too pledged to this expedition, mother?" "Mother is pledged to nothing," said Mrs. Moore, rather unexpectedly. "Certainly not to this polo. Will you drive up to the bungalow first, and drop me there, please? I prefer to rest." "Drop me too," said Adela. "I don't want to watch polo either, I'm sure." "Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing about with Indians any more! If you want to go to the Marabar Caves, you'll go under British auspices." "I've never heard of these caves, I don't know what or where they are," said Mrs. Moore, "but I really can't have" she tapped the cushion beside her "so much quarrelling and tiresomeness!" The young people were ashamed. They dropped her at the bungalow and drove on together to the polo, feeling it was the least they could do. Their crackling bad humour left them, but the heaviness of their spirit remained; thunderstorms seldom clear the air. Miss Quested was thinking over her own behaviour, and didn't like it at all. Instead of weighing Ronny and herself, and coming to a reasoned conclusion about marriage, she had incidentally, in the course of a talk about mangoes, remarked to mixed company that she didn't mean to stop in India. Which meant that she wouldn't marry Ronny: but what a way to announce it, what a way for a civilized girl to behave! She owed him an explanation, but unfortunately there was nothing to explain. The "thorough talk" so dear to her principles and temperament had been postponed until too late. There seemed no point in being disagreeable to him and formulating her complaints against his character at this hour of the day, which was the evening. . . . The polo took place on the Maidan near the entrance of Chandrapore city. The sun was already declining and each of the trees held a premonition of night. They walked away from the governing group to a distant seat, and there, feeling that it was his due and her own, she forced out of herself the undigested remark: "We must have a thorough talk, Ronny, I'm afraid." "My temper's rotten, I must apologize," was his reply. "I didn't mean to order you and mother about, but of course the way those Bengalis let you down this morning annoyed me, and I don't want that sort of thing to keep happening." "It's nothing to do with them that I . . ." "No, but Aziz would make some similar muddle over the caves. He meant nothing by the invitation, I could tell by his voice; it's just their way of being pleasant." "It's something very different, nothing to do with caves, that I wanted to talk over with you." She gazed at the colourless grass. "I've finally decided we are not going to be married, my dear boy." The news hurt Ronny very much. He had heard Aziz announce that she would not return to the country, but had paid no attention to the remark, for he never dreamt that an Indian could be a channel of communication between two English people. He controlled himself and said gently, "You never said we should marry, my dear girl; you never bound either yourself or me don't let this upset you." She felt ashamed. How decent he was! He might force his opinions down her throat, but did not press her to an "engagement," because he believed, like herself, in the sanctity of personal relationships: it was this that had drawn them together at their first meeting, which had occurred among the grand scenery of the English Lakes. Her ordeal was over, but she felt it should have been more painful and longer. Adela will not marry Ronny. It seemed slipping away like a dream. She said, "But let us discuss things; it's all so frightfully important, we mustn't make false steps. I want next to hear your point of view about me it might help us both." His manner was unhappy and reserved. "I don't much believe in this discussing besides, I'm so dead with all this extra work Mohurram's bringing, if you'll excuse me." "I only want everything to be absolutely clear between us, and to answer any questions you care to put to me on my conduct." "But I haven't got any questions. You've acted within your rights, you were quite right to come out and have a look at me doing my work, it was an excellent plan, and anyhow it's no use talking further we should only get up steam." He felt angry and bruised; he was too proud to tempt her back, but he did not consider that she had behaved badly, because where his compatriots were concerned he had a generous mind. "I suppose that there is nothing else; it's unpardonable of me to have given you and your mother all this bother," said Miss Quested heavily, and frowned up at the tree beneath which they were sitting. A little green bird was observing her, so brilliant and neat that it might have hopped straight out of a shop. On catching her eye it
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It was the qualified bray of the callow official, the "I am not perfect, but " that got on her nerves. How gross he had been at Mr. Fielding's spoiling the talk and walking off in the middle of the haunting song! As he drove them away in the tum-tum, her irritation became unbearable, and she did not realize that much of it was directed against herself. She longed for an opportunity to fly out at him, and since he felt cross too, and they were both in India, an opportunity soon occurred. They had scarcely left the College grounds before she heard him say to his mother, who was with him on the front seat, "What was that about caves?" and she promptly opened fire. "Mrs. Moore, your delightful doctor has decided on a picnic, instead of a party in his house; we are to meet him out there you, myself, Mr. Fielding, Professor Godbole exactly the same party." "Out where?" asked Ronny. "The Marabar Caves." "Well, I'm blessed," he murmured after a pause. "Did he descend to any details?" "He did not. If you had spoken to him, we could have arranged them." He shook his head laughing. "Have I said anything funny?" "I was only thinking how the worthy doctor's collar climbed up his neck." "I thought you were discussing the caves." "So I am. Aziz was exquisitely dressed, from tie-pin to spats, but he had forgotten his back collar-stud, and there you have the Indian all over: inattention to detail; the fundamental slackness that reveals the race. Similarly, to meet' in the caves as if they were the clock at Charing Cross, when they're miles from a station and each other." "Have you been to them?" "No, but I know all about them, naturally." "Oh naturally!" "Are you too pledged to this expedition, mother?" "Mother is pledged to nothing," said Mrs. Moore, rather unexpectedly. "Certainly not to this polo. Will you drive up to the bungalow first, and drop me there, please? I prefer to rest." "Drop me too," said Adela. "I don't want to watch polo either, I'm sure." "Simpler to drop the polo,"<|quote|>said Ronny. Tired and disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a loud lecturing voice,</|quote|>"I won't have you messing about with Indians any more! If you want to go to the Marabar Caves, you'll go under British auspices." "I've never heard of these caves, I don't know what or where they are," said Mrs. Moore, "but I really can't have" she tapped the cushion beside her "so much quarrelling and tiresomeness!" The young people were ashamed. They dropped her at the bungalow and drove on together to the polo, feeling it was the least they could do. Their crackling bad humour left them, but the heaviness of their spirit remained; thunderstorms seldom clear the air. Miss Quested was thinking over her own behaviour, and didn't like it at all. Instead of weighing Ronny and herself, and coming to a reasoned conclusion about marriage, she had incidentally, in the course of a talk about mangoes, remarked to mixed company that she didn't mean to stop in India. Which meant that she wouldn't marry Ronny: but what a way to announce it, what a way for a civilized girl to behave! She owed him an explanation, but unfortunately there was nothing to explain. The "thorough talk" so dear to her principles and temperament had been postponed until too late. There seemed no point in being disagreeable to him and formulating her complaints against his character at this hour of the day, which was the evening. . . . The polo took place on the Maidan near the entrance of Chandrapore city. The sun was already declining and each of the trees held a premonition of night. They walked away from the governing group to a distant seat, and there, feeling that it was his due and her own, she forced out of herself the undigested remark: "We must have a thorough talk, Ronny, I'm afraid." "My temper's rotten, I must apologize," was his reply. "I didn't mean to order you and mother about, but of course the way those Bengalis let you down this morning annoyed me, and I don't want that sort of thing to keep happening." "It's nothing to do with them that I . . ." "No, but Aziz would make some similar muddle over the caves. He meant nothing by the invitation, I could tell by his voice; it's just their way of being pleasant." "It's something very different, nothing to do with caves, that I wanted to talk over with you." She gazed at the colourless grass. "I've finally decided we are not going to be married, my dear boy." The news hurt Ronny very much. He had heard Aziz announce that she would not return to the country, but had paid no attention to the remark, for he never dreamt that an Indian could be a channel of communication between two English people. He controlled himself and said gently, "You never said we should marry, my dear girl; you never bound either yourself or me don't let this upset you." She felt ashamed. How decent he was! He might
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A Passage To India
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cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.
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No speaker
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just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?"
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"Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat
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They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we
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first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad
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and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!" At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,-- "Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT.
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"This way, then. Hist!" Don caught Jem's arm in a firm grip as he was moving along the deck, each feeling somewhat agitated at the daring venture of exchanging firm planks for the treacherous sea, infested as they knew it was by horrible creatures which could tear them limb from limb. Jem had heard a sound at the same moment, and he needed no telling that he should listen. For from some distance off along the shore there was a faint splash, and, as they strained their eyes in the direction from whence it had come, they could see flashes of pale light, which they knew were caused by paddles. "It's them, Jem," whispered Don, excitedly. "We must not start yet till the canoe is close up. I wish I had told him that I would make some signal." "It'll be all right, my lad," said Jem huskily. "Give 'em time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?" "I hope not," panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously. "Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!" At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,-- "Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea. _Splash_! A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display--if the expression is allowable--of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction. "Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way." He reached the spot from which Don and Jem had taken their daring leap, and in less than a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns was
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indeed." Then two faint sparks of light could be seen, indicating that the speakers were smoking, and the low murmuring of their voices suggested that they were chatting carelessly together. "Keep your hand down, Mas' Don," said Jem in a whisper, after removing it. "They can't hear us, and if they did they'd think it was the watch. Say, look here, seems a pity to waste them ropes after we've got 'em down ready." "Yes, Jem, it does." "Such a short way to slide down, and no fear o' their breaking, same as there was in that cock-loft. What d'yer say?" "What to?" "Let's slide down and swim for it. 'Tarn't quarter of a mile. You could do that easy." "Yes, Jem; I think so." "And I'd help you if you got tired. Let's go." "But the sharks." "There I goes again. I always forgets them sharks; but look here, my lad, it's dark as pitch." "Quite, Jem." "We can't see twenty yards afore us, not clear." "Not ten, Jem." "Well, that's through the air. We couldn't see an inch through water." "What of that?" "More couldn't the sharks." "Think not, Jem?" "I feel 'bout sure on it. Look here, Mas' Don, I arn't got any money, but if I had, I'd wager half-a-guinea that all the sharks are at home and fast asleep; and if there's any of 'em shut out and roaming about in the streets--I mean in the sea--it's so dark that they couldn't see more than an inch before their noses; so let's open our knives ready, in case one should come, so that we could dive down and stab him, same as the natives do, and then swim on ashore. I'll risk it: will you?" Don was silent for a few moments. "Don't say _yes_, my lad, if you'd rayther not," said Jem, kindly. "I don't want to persuade you." "I'm ready, Jem. I was thinking whether it was right to let you go." "Oh, never you mind about me, my lad. Now, look here, shall us one go down each rope, or both down one?" "Both down this one close here, and whoever goes down first can wait for the other. Yes, Jem; I'll go first." "When?" "Now, at once." "Hoo--ray!" whispered Jem in Don's ear, so sharply that it produced a strange tickling sensation. "Open your knife, Jem." "Right, my lad; I'm ready." "This way, then. Hist!" Don caught Jem's arm in a firm grip as he was moving along the deck, each feeling somewhat agitated at the daring venture of exchanging firm planks for the treacherous sea, infested as they knew it was by horrible creatures which could tear them limb from limb. Jem had heard a sound at the same moment, and he needed no telling that he should listen. For from some distance off along the shore there was a faint splash, and, as they strained their eyes in the direction from whence it had come, they could see flashes of pale light, which they knew were caused by paddles. "It's them, Jem," whispered Don, excitedly. "We must not start yet till the canoe is close up. I wish I had told him that I would make some signal." "It'll be all right, my lad," said Jem huskily. "Give 'em time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?" "I hope not," panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously. "Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!" At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,-- "Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea. _Splash_! A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display--if the expression is allowable--of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction. "Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way." He reached the spot from which Don and Jem had taken their daring leap, and in less than a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns was thrown upon the sea. "Come back!" roared the captain, "or I fire. Marines, make ready." The lanthorns' light gleamed further on the sea as those who held them clambered up the shrouds and held them at arms' length, and then dimly-seen were the backs of the heads of the two swimmers, who made the water swirl as they struck out with all their might. "Do you hear, you scoundrels?" roared the captain again. "Come back, or I fire." There was no reply and the heads began to grow more faint in the gloom, while now the news had spread through the ship, and officers and men came tumbling up the companion ladder and out of their cabins. "Marines, present--fire!" cried the captain. There were two sharp clicks and as many tiny showers of sparks. That was all. "Why, you were not loaded!" cried the captain, fiercely, "Where is the lieutenant? Where is the sergeant? Load, you scoundrels, load!" The men grounded arms, and began to load quickly, the thudding of their iron ramrods sounding strangely in the still night air. "Pipe away the first cutter!" cried the captain. "Mr Rogerson, bring those scoundrels back." The shrill pipe of the boatswain was heard, and there was a rush of feet as the captain shouted again,-- "Present--fire!" There was a sharp flash, a loud report, and the captain stamped with rage. "Fire, you scoundrel, fire!" he roared at the second man, who was about to lower his clumsy musket, after tugging in vain at the trigger, when the piece went off, and the bullet fled skyward, sending the nearest lanthorn held up in the shrouds out of its holder's hand, to fall with a splash in the sea, and float for a few moments before it filled and sank, the candle burning till the water touched the wick. "'Pon my word!" cried the captain. "Nice state of discipline. Now you--fire again. And you, sir, load. Can you see the men, marines?" "No, sir. Right out of sight." "Then fire where they were when you saw them last." "But they won't be there now, sir." "Silence, you scoundrel! How dare you? Fire!" _Bang_. "Now you: are you ready?" "Yes, sir." "Fire!" _Bang_. "Load again!" cried the captain. "Now, you scoundrels, come back or you shall have a volley." A strange noise came off the sea. "Hark! What's that?" cried the captain. "A cry
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was moving along the deck, each feeling somewhat agitated at the daring venture of exchanging firm planks for the treacherous sea, infested as they knew it was by horrible creatures which could tear them limb from limb. Jem had heard a sound at the same moment, and he needed no telling that he should listen. For from some distance off along the shore there was a faint splash, and, as they strained their eyes in the direction from whence it had come, they could see flashes of pale light, which they knew were caused by paddles. "It's them, Jem," whispered Don, excitedly. "We must not start yet till the canoe is close up. I wish I had told him that I would make some signal." "It'll be all right, my lad," said Jem huskily. "Give 'em time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?" "I hope not," panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously. "Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?" "Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his." "Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first." They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked--rather a rare custom in those days. "It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer." They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat--that of friend or foe--was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain. "Ready, Jem?" "Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand." "What!"<|quote|>cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.</|quote|>"What's that mean, Mas' Don?" "Don't know. Some order." "Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen. "Watch there forward!" roared the captain. "Ay, ay, sir," came back. "Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now." "I'm after you, my lad." "Jem!" in a tone of despair. "What is it!" "The rope's cut!" "What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains." In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad--pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope. "Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head." "I've got it," whispered Don. Then in a voice full of despair,-- "This is cut, too!" At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,-- "Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT. "What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act. "This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains." "Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth. "Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on." He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side. "Header?" he whispered. "Yes.--Off!" Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the
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Don Lavington
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she replied. And she said nothing more.
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No speaker
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at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?"
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respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed.
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knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment. "Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed. "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go
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got that pole," she said. "I bought it," responded Randolph. "You don t mean to say you re going to take it to Italy?" "Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared. The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment. "Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed. "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America." "Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man. "Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired. "I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too." "I haven t had any for
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conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?--a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne s observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again. "I should like to know where you got that pole," she said. "I bought it," responded Randolph. "You don t mean to say you re going to take it to Italy?" "Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared. The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment. "Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed. "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America." "Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man. "Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired. "I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too." "I haven t had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping about. The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as
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prepared to rise. The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a little. "Randolph," said the young lady, "what ARE you doing?" "I m going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!" And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne s ears. "That s the way they come down," said Winterbourne. "He s an American man!" cried Randolph, in his little hard voice. The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her brother. "Well, I guess you had better be quiet," she simply observed. It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. "This little boy and I have made acquaintance," he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?--a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne s observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again. "I should like to know where you got that pole," she said. "I bought it," responded Randolph. "You don t mean to say you re going to take it to Italy?" "Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared. The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment. "Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed. "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America." "Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man. "Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired. "I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too." "I haven t had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping about. The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young girl s eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman s various features--her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady s face he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was
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his teeth. "Oh, blazes; it s har-r-d!" he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner. Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming him as a fellow countryman. "Take care you don t hurt your teeth," he said, paternally. "I haven t got any teeth to hurt. They have all come out. I have only got seven teeth. My mother counted them last night, and one came out right afterward. She said she d slap me if any more came out. I can t help it. It s this old Europe. It s the climate that makes them come out. In America they didn t come out. It s these hotels." Winterbourne was much amused. "If you eat three lumps of sugar, your mother will certainly slap you," he said. "She s got to give me some candy, then," rejoined his young interlocutor. "I can t get any candy here--any American candy. American candy s the best candy." "And are American little boys the best little boys?" asked Winterbourne. "I don t know. I m an American boy," said the child. "I see you are one of the best!" laughed Winterbourne. "Are you an American man?" pursued this vivacious infant. And then, on Winterbourne s affirmative reply--" "American men are the best," he declared. His companion thanked him for the compliment, and the child, who had now got astride of his alpenstock, stood looking about him, while he attacked a second lump of sugar. Winterbourne wondered if he himself had been like this in his infancy, for he had been brought to Europe at about this age. "Here comes my sister!" cried the child in a moment. "She s an American girl." Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing. "American girls are the best girls," he said cheerfully to his young companion. "My sister ain t the best!" the child declared. "She s always blowing at me." "I imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne. The young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon. She was bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strikingly, admirably pretty. "How pretty they are!" thought Winterbourne, straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise. The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a little. "Randolph," said the young lady, "what ARE you doing?" "I m going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!" And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne s ears. "That s the way they come down," said Winterbourne. "He s an American man!" cried Randolph, in his little hard voice. The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her brother. "Well, I guess you had better be quiet," she simply observed. It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. "This little boy and I have made acquaintance," he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?--a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne s observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again. "I should like to know where you got that pole," she said. "I bought it," responded Randolph. "You don t mean to say you re going to take it to Italy?" "Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared. The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment. "Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed. "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America." "Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man. "Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired. "I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too." "I haven t had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping about. The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young girl s eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman s various features--her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady s face he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller," said the boy sharply. "And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young
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near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon. She was bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strikingly, admirably pretty. "How pretty they are!" thought Winterbourne, straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise. The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a little. "Randolph," said the young lady, "what ARE you doing?" "I m going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!" And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne s ears. "That s the way they come down," said Winterbourne. "He s an American man!" cried Randolph, in his little hard voice. The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her brother. "Well, I guess you had better be quiet," she simply observed. It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. "This little boy and I have made acquaintance," he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?--a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne s observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again. "I should like to know where you got that pole," she said. "I bought it," responded Randolph. "You don t mean to say you re going to take it to Italy?" "Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared. The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment. "Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir,"<|quote|>she replied. And she said nothing more.</|quote|>"Are you--a--going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed. "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America." "Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man. "Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired. "I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too." "I haven t had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping about. The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young girl s eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman s various features--her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady s face he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like
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Daisy Miller
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The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:
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No speaker
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good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just
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that they must be as good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he
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and viewed them with attention; and after having admired them a long time, "Take those fish," said he to his vizier, "and carry them to the cook whom the emperor of the Greeks has sent me. I cannot imagine but that they must be as good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he orders you to dress them." He then returned to the sultan, who commanded him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold, which he did accordingly. The fisherman, who had never seen so much money, could scarcely believe his
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time, and returned to the town very well satisfied, and making a thousand reflections upon his adventure. He went immediately to the sultan's palace to offer his fish, and his majesty was much surprised when he saw the wonders which the fisherman presented. He took them up one after another, and viewed them with attention; and after having admired them a long time, "Take those fish," said he to his vizier, "and carry them to the cook whom the emperor of the Greeks has sent me. I cannot imagine but that they must be as good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he orders you to dress them." He then returned to the sultan, who commanded him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold, which he did accordingly. The fisherman, who had never seen so much money, could scarcely believe his good fortune, but thought the whole must be a dream, until he found it otherwise, by being able to provide necessaries for his family with the produce of his nets. As soon as the sultan's cook had cleaned the fish, she put them upon the fire in a frying-pan, with
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that he might get a considerable sum for them, he was very joyful. "Carry those fish," said the genie to him, "and present them to your sultan; he will give you more money for them. You may come daily to fish in this lake; but I give you warning not to throw in your nets above once a day, otherwise you will repent." Having spoken thus, he struck his foot upon the ground, which opened, and after it had swallowed him up, closed again. The fisherman, being resolved to follow the genie's advice, forbore casting in his nets a second time, and returned to the town very well satisfied, and making a thousand reflections upon his adventure. He went immediately to the sultan's palace to offer his fish, and his majesty was much surprised when he saw the wonders which the fisherman presented. He took them up one after another, and viewed them with attention; and after having admired them a long time, "Take those fish," said he to his vizier, "and carry them to the cook whom the emperor of the Greeks has sent me. I cannot imagine but that they must be as good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he orders you to dress them." He then returned to the sultan, who commanded him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold, which he did accordingly. The fisherman, who had never seen so much money, could scarcely believe his good fortune, but thought the whole must be a dream, until he found it otherwise, by being able to provide necessaries for his family with the produce of his nets. As soon as the sultan's cook had cleaned the fish, she put them upon the fire in a frying-pan, with oil, and when she thought them fried enough on one side, she turned them upon the other; but, O monstrous prodigy! scarcely were they turned, when the wall of the kitchen divided, and a young lady of wonderful beauty entered from the opening. She held a rod in her hand and was clad in flowered satin, with pendants in her ears, a necklace of large pearls, and bracelets of gold set with rubies. She moved toward the frying-pan, to the great amazement of the cook, and striking one of the fish with the end of the rod, said: "Fish, fish,
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the sea. This action alarmed the fisherman. "Genie," said he, "will not you keep the oath you just now made?" The genie laughed at his fear, and answered: "Fisherman, be not afraid, I only did it to divert myself, and to see if you would be alarmed at it; but to convince you that I am in earnest, take your nets and follow me." As he spoke these words, he walked before the fisherman, who having taken up his nets, followed him, but with some distrust. They passed by the town, and came to the top of a mountain, from whence they descended into a vast plain, which brought them to a lake that lay betwixt four hills. When they reached the side of the lake, the genie said to the fisherman: "Cast in your nets and catch fish." The fisherman did not doubt of taking some, because he saw a great number in the water; but he was extremely surprised when he found they were of four colours; white, red, blue, and yellow. He threw in his nets and brought out one of each colour. Having never seen the like before, he could not but admire them, and, judging that he might get a considerable sum for them, he was very joyful. "Carry those fish," said the genie to him, "and present them to your sultan; he will give you more money for them. You may come daily to fish in this lake; but I give you warning not to throw in your nets above once a day, otherwise you will repent." Having spoken thus, he struck his foot upon the ground, which opened, and after it had swallowed him up, closed again. The fisherman, being resolved to follow the genie's advice, forbore casting in his nets a second time, and returned to the town very well satisfied, and making a thousand reflections upon his adventure. He went immediately to the sultan's palace to offer his fish, and his majesty was much surprised when he saw the wonders which the fisherman presented. He took them up one after another, and viewed them with attention; and after having admired them a long time, "Take those fish," said he to his vizier, "and carry them to the cook whom the emperor of the Greeks has sent me. I cannot imagine but that they must be as good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he orders you to dress them." He then returned to the sultan, who commanded him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold, which he did accordingly. The fisherman, who had never seen so much money, could scarcely believe his good fortune, but thought the whole must be a dream, until he found it otherwise, by being able to provide necessaries for his family with the produce of his nets. As soon as the sultan's cook had cleaned the fish, she put them upon the fire in a frying-pan, with oil, and when she thought them fried enough on one side, she turned them upon the other; but, O monstrous prodigy! scarcely were they turned, when the wall of the kitchen divided, and a young lady of wonderful beauty entered from the opening. She held a rod in her hand and was clad in flowered satin, with pendants in her ears, a necklace of large pearls, and bracelets of gold set with rubies. She moved toward the frying-pan, to the great amazement of the cook, and striking one of the fish with the end of the rod, said: "Fish, fish, are you in your duty?" The fish having answered nothing, she repeated these words, and then the four fish lifted up their heads, and replied: "Yes, yes: if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome, and are content." As soon as they had finished these words, the lady overturned the frying-pan, and returned into the open part of the wall, which closed immediately, and became as it was before. The cook was greatly frightened at what had happened, and coming a little to herself went to take up the fish that had fallen on the hearth, but found them blacker than coal and not fit to be carried to the sultan. This grievously troubled her, and she fell to weeping most bitterly. "Alas!" said she, "what will become of me? If I tell the sultan what I have seen, I am sure he will not believe me, but will be enraged against me." While she was thus bewailing herself, the grand vizier entered, and asked her if the fish were ready. She told him all that had occurred, which we may easily imagine astonished him; but without speaking a word
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and now art the least of them, thy crafty discourse will signify nothing, to the sea thou shalt return. If thou hast been there already so long as thou hast told me, thou mayest very well stay there till the day of judgment. I begged of thee, in God's name, not to take away my life, and thou didst reject my prayers; I am obliged to treat thee in the same manner." The genie omitted nothing that he thought likely to prevail with the fisherman: "Open the vessel," said he, "give me my liberty, and I promise to satisfy you to your own content." "Thou art a traitor," replied the fisherman, "I should deserve to lose my life, if I were such a fool as to trust thee." "My good fisherman," replied the genie, "I conjure you once more not to be guilty of such cruelty; consider that it is not good to avenge one's self, and that, on the other hand, it is commendable to do good for evil; do not treat me as Imama formerly treated Ateca." "And what did Imama to Ateca?" inquired the fisherman. "Ho!" cried the genie, "if you have a mind to be informed, open the vessel: do you think that I can be in a humour to relate stories in so strait a prison? I will tell you as many as you please, when you have let me out." "No," said the fisherman, "I will not let thee out; it is in vain to talk of it; I am just going to throw thee into the bottom of the sea." "Hear me one word more," cried the genie; "I promise to do you no hurt; nay, far from that, I will show you a way to become exceedingly rich." The hope of delivering himself from poverty prevailed with the fisherman. "I could listen to thee," said he, "were there any credit to be given to thy word; swear to me, by the great name of God, that thou wilt faithfully perform what thou promisest, and I will open the vessel; I do not believe thou wilt dare to break such an oath." The genie swore to him, upon which the fisherman immediately took off the covering of the vessel. At that instant the smoke ascended, and the genie, having resumed his form, the first thing he did was to kick the vessel into the sea. This action alarmed the fisherman. "Genie," said he, "will not you keep the oath you just now made?" The genie laughed at his fear, and answered: "Fisherman, be not afraid, I only did it to divert myself, and to see if you would be alarmed at it; but to convince you that I am in earnest, take your nets and follow me." As he spoke these words, he walked before the fisherman, who having taken up his nets, followed him, but with some distrust. They passed by the town, and came to the top of a mountain, from whence they descended into a vast plain, which brought them to a lake that lay betwixt four hills. When they reached the side of the lake, the genie said to the fisherman: "Cast in your nets and catch fish." The fisherman did not doubt of taking some, because he saw a great number in the water; but he was extremely surprised when he found they were of four colours; white, red, blue, and yellow. He threw in his nets and brought out one of each colour. Having never seen the like before, he could not but admire them, and, judging that he might get a considerable sum for them, he was very joyful. "Carry those fish," said the genie to him, "and present them to your sultan; he will give you more money for them. You may come daily to fish in this lake; but I give you warning not to throw in your nets above once a day, otherwise you will repent." Having spoken thus, he struck his foot upon the ground, which opened, and after it had swallowed him up, closed again. The fisherman, being resolved to follow the genie's advice, forbore casting in his nets a second time, and returned to the town very well satisfied, and making a thousand reflections upon his adventure. He went immediately to the sultan's palace to offer his fish, and his majesty was much surprised when he saw the wonders which the fisherman presented. He took them up one after another, and viewed them with attention; and after having admired them a long time, "Take those fish," said he to his vizier, "and carry them to the cook whom the emperor of the Greeks has sent me. I cannot imagine but that they must be as good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he orders you to dress them." He then returned to the sultan, who commanded him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold, which he did accordingly. The fisherman, who had never seen so much money, could scarcely believe his good fortune, but thought the whole must be a dream, until he found it otherwise, by being able to provide necessaries for his family with the produce of his nets. As soon as the sultan's cook had cleaned the fish, she put them upon the fire in a frying-pan, with oil, and when she thought them fried enough on one side, she turned them upon the other; but, O monstrous prodigy! scarcely were they turned, when the wall of the kitchen divided, and a young lady of wonderful beauty entered from the opening. She held a rod in her hand and was clad in flowered satin, with pendants in her ears, a necklace of large pearls, and bracelets of gold set with rubies. She moved toward the frying-pan, to the great amazement of the cook, and striking one of the fish with the end of the rod, said: "Fish, fish, are you in your duty?" The fish having answered nothing, she repeated these words, and then the four fish lifted up their heads, and replied: "Yes, yes: if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome, and are content." As soon as they had finished these words, the lady overturned the frying-pan, and returned into the open part of the wall, which closed immediately, and became as it was before. The cook was greatly frightened at what had happened, and coming a little to herself went to take up the fish that had fallen on the hearth, but found them blacker than coal and not fit to be carried to the sultan. This grievously troubled her, and she fell to weeping most bitterly. "Alas!" said she, "what will become of me? If I tell the sultan what I have seen, I am sure he will not believe me, but will be enraged against me." While she was thus bewailing herself, the grand vizier entered, and asked her if the fish were ready. She told him all that had occurred, which we may easily imagine astonished him; but without speaking a word of it to the sultan he invented an excuse that satisfied him, and sending immediately for the fisherman bid him bring four more such fish, for a misfortune had befallen the others, so that they were not fit to be carried to the royal table. The fisherman, without saying anything of what the genie had told him, told the vizier he had a great way to go for them, in order to excuse himself from bringing them that day, but said that he would certainly bring them on the morrow. Accordingly the fisherman went away by night, and coming to the lake, threw in his nets betimes next morning, took four fish like the former, and brought them to the vizier at the hour appointed. The minister took them himself, carried them to the kitchen, and shutting himself up with the cook, she cleaned them and put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer. After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy." The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other;
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covering of the vessel. At that instant the smoke ascended, and the genie, having resumed his form, the first thing he did was to kick the vessel into the sea. This action alarmed the fisherman. "Genie," said he, "will not you keep the oath you just now made?" The genie laughed at his fear, and answered: "Fisherman, be not afraid, I only did it to divert myself, and to see if you would be alarmed at it; but to convince you that I am in earnest, take your nets and follow me." As he spoke these words, he walked before the fisherman, who having taken up his nets, followed him, but with some distrust. They passed by the town, and came to the top of a mountain, from whence they descended into a vast plain, which brought them to a lake that lay betwixt four hills. When they reached the side of the lake, the genie said to the fisherman: "Cast in your nets and catch fish." The fisherman did not doubt of taking some, because he saw a great number in the water; but he was extremely surprised when he found they were of four colours; white, red, blue, and yellow. He threw in his nets and brought out one of each colour. Having never seen the like before, he could not but admire them, and, judging that he might get a considerable sum for them, he was very joyful. "Carry those fish," said the genie to him, "and present them to your sultan; he will give you more money for them. You may come daily to fish in this lake; but I give you warning not to throw in your nets above once a day, otherwise you will repent." Having spoken thus, he struck his foot upon the ground, which opened, and after it had swallowed him up, closed again. The fisherman, being resolved to follow the genie's advice, forbore casting in his nets a second time, and returned to the town very well satisfied, and making a thousand reflections upon his adventure. He went immediately to the sultan's palace to offer his fish, and his majesty was much surprised when he saw the wonders which the fisherman presented. He took them up one after another, and viewed them with attention; and after having admired them a long time, "Take those fish," said he to his vizier, "and carry them to the cook whom the emperor of the Greeks has sent me. I cannot imagine but that they must be as good as they are beautiful."<|quote|>The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said:</|quote|>"Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he orders you to dress them." He then returned to the sultan, who commanded him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold, which he did accordingly. The fisherman, who had never seen so much money, could scarcely believe his good fortune, but thought the whole must be a dream, until he found it otherwise, by being able to provide necessaries for his family with the produce of his nets. As soon as the sultan's cook had cleaned the fish, she put them upon the fire in a frying-pan, with oil, and when she thought them fried enough on one side, she turned them upon the other; but, O monstrous prodigy! scarcely were they turned, when the wall of the kitchen divided, and a young lady of wonderful beauty entered from the opening. She held a rod in her hand and was clad in flowered satin, with pendants in her ears, a necklace of large pearls, and bracelets of gold set with rubies. She moved toward the frying-pan, to the great amazement of the cook, and striking one of the fish with the end of the rod, said: "Fish, fish, are you in your duty?" The fish having answered nothing, she repeated these words, and then the four fish lifted up their heads, and replied: "Yes, yes: if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome, and are content." As soon as they had finished these words, the lady overturned the frying-pan, and returned into the open part of the wall, which closed immediately, and became as it was before. The cook was greatly frightened at what had happened, and coming a little to herself went to take up the fish that had fallen on the hearth, but found them blacker than coal and not fit to be carried to the sultan. This grievously troubled her, and she fell to weeping most bitterly. "Alas!" said she, "what will become of me? If I tell the sultan what I have seen, I am sure he will not believe me, but will be enraged against me." While she was thus bewailing herself, the grand vizier entered, and asked her if the fish were ready. She told him all that had occurred,
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Arabian Nights (2)
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--she was vague.
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No speaker
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have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning
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him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend
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Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls,
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lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up
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that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the
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“I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.” “Yes,” she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with
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of his soft surrender-- “well, just to do _this_: to come to you here, in my fever, at an unnatural hour and uninvited, and at least let you know I’ve ‘acted.’” “Oh, but I simply rejoice,” Lady Grace declared, “to be acting _with_ you.” “Then if you are, if you are,” the young man cried, “why everything’s beautiful and right!” “It’s all I care for and think of now,” she went on in her bright devotion, “and I’ve only wondered and hoped!” Well, Hugh found for it all a rapid, abundant lucidity. “He was away from home at first, and I had to wait--but I crossed last week, found him and settled incoming home by Paris, where I had a grand four days’ jaw with the fellows there and saw _their_ great specimen of our master: all of which has given him time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.” “Yes,” she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and aims at. He lives in it as a saint in glory or a fish in water.” She took it from him as half doubting. “But mayn’t advertisement, in so special a case, turn, on the whole, against him?” Hugh shook a negative forefinger with an expression he might have caught from foreign comrades. “He rides the biggest whirlwind--he has got it saddled and bitted.” She faced the image, but cast about “Then where does our success come in?” “In our making the beast, all the same, bolt with him and throw him.” And Hugh further pointed the moral. “If in such proceedings all he knows is publicity the thing is to give him publicity, and it’s only a question of giving him enough. By the time he has enough for himself, you see, he’ll have too much for every one else--so that we shall ‘up’ in a body and slay him.” The girl’s eyebrows, in her wondering face, rose to a question. “But if he has meanwhile got the picture?” “We’ll slay him before he gets it!” He revelled in the breadth of his view. “Our own policy must be to _organise_ to that end the inevitable outcry. Organise Bender himself--organise him to scandal.” Hugh had already even pity to spare for their victim. “He won’t know it from a boom.” Though carried along, however, Lady Grace could still measure. “But that will be only if he wants and decides for the picture.” “We must make him then want and decide for it--decide, that is, for ‘ours.’
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even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case. “I see our situation.” “So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No”<|quote|>--she was vague.</|quote|>“We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that
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The Outcry
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"It is only a boy,"
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Dr. Panna Lal
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this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased.
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the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said
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and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of
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bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?"
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for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be
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seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure I don't tire you by stopping?" "Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality." He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away. "He is ill and he
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which ruin the character and career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He thought of Cambridge sadly, as of another poem that had ended. How happy he had been there, twenty years ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and Mrs. Bannister's rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq he couldn't even trust them, although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure I don't tire you by stopping?" "Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality." He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away. "He is ill and he is not ill," said Hamidullah, offering a cigarette. "And I suppose that most of us are in that same case." Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to trust each other. "The whole world looks to be dying, still it doesn't die, so we must assume the existence of a beneficent Providence." "Oh, that is true, how true!" said the policeman, thinking religion had been praised. "Does Mr. Fielding think it's true?." "Think which true? The world isn't dying. I'm certain of that!" "No, no the existence of Providence." "Well, I don't believe in Providence." "But how then can you believe in God?" asked Syed Mohammed. "I don't believe in God." A tiny movement as of "I told you so!" passed round the company, and Aziz looked up for an instant, scandalized. "Is it correct that most are atheists in England now?" Hamidullah enquired. "The educated thoughtful people? I should say so, though they don't like the name. The truth is that the West doesn't bother much over belief and disbelief in these days. Fifty years ago, or even when you and I were young, much more fuss was made." "And does not morality also decline?" "It depends what you call yes, yes, I suppose morality does decline." "Excuse the question, but if this is the case, how is England justified in holding India?" There they were! Politics again. "It's a question I can't get my mind on to," he replied. "I'm out here personally because I needed a job. I cannot tell you why England is here or whether she ought to be here. It's beyond me." "Well-qualified Indians also need jobs in the educational." "I guess they do; I got in first," said Fielding, smiling. "Then excuse me again is it fair an Englishman should occupy one when Indians are available? Of course I mean nothing personally. Personally we are delighted you should be here, and we benefit greatly by this frank talk." There is only one answer to a conversation of this type: "England holds India for her good." Yet Fielding was disinclined to give it. The zeal for honesty had eaten him up. He said, "I'm delighted to be here too that's my answer, there's my only excuse. I can't tell you anything about fairness. It mayn't have been fair I should have been born. I
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might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness."<|quote|>"It is only a boy,"</|quote|>said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate
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A Passage To India
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"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."
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Josiah Christmas
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strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly
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my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed
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gold from his flap waistcoat pocket, and handed it to his uncle, who looked at him so curiously that the boy grew confused. "Picked this up on the floor, Lindon?" said Uncle Josiah. "Yes, sir. It had rolled down by my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed to him that his uncle looked at him doubtingly, and this brought a feeling of hot indignation into the boy's brain. He turned quickly, however, entered the office, and with his uncle looking on, searched all over the floor. "Well?"
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eight guineas are gone--missing." "Eight guineas? Missing, sir?" "Yes, do you know anything about them?" "No, sir. I--that is--yes, I remember now: I picked up a guinea on the floor, and meant to give it to you. Here it is: I forgot all about it." Don took a piece of gold from his flap waistcoat pocket, and handed it to his uncle, who looked at him so curiously that the boy grew confused. "Picked this up on the floor, Lindon?" said Uncle Josiah. "Yes, sir. It had rolled down by my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed to him that his uncle looked at him doubtingly, and this brought a feeling of hot indignation into the boy's brain. He turned quickly, however, entered the office, and with his uncle looking on, searched all over the floor. "Well?" "There's nothing here, sir. Of course not," cried Don eagerly; "Mrs Wimble sweeps up every morning, and if there had been she would have found it." Uncle Josiah lifted off his cocked hat, and put it on again wrong way first. "This is a very unpleasant affair, Lindon," he said.
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Did Bannock say he should stay away to-day?" "Not to me, uncle." "Nor to me, sir." "It's very strange, just as we are so busy too. He has not drawn any money." "P'r'aps press-gang's got him, sir," suggested Jem. "Humph! Hardly likely!" said Uncle Josiah; and he went on and entered the office, to come out at the end of a few minutes and beckon to Don. "Lindon," he said, as the lad joined him, "I left nine guineas and a half in the little mahogany bowl in my desk yesterday. Whom have you paid?" "Paid? No one, sir." "But eight guineas are gone--missing." "Eight guineas? Missing, sir?" "Yes, do you know anything about them?" "No, sir. I--that is--yes, I remember now: I picked up a guinea on the floor, and meant to give it to you. Here it is: I forgot all about it." Don took a piece of gold from his flap waistcoat pocket, and handed it to his uncle, who looked at him so curiously that the boy grew confused. "Picked this up on the floor, Lindon?" said Uncle Josiah. "Yes, sir. It had rolled down by my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed to him that his uncle looked at him doubtingly, and this brought a feeling of hot indignation into the boy's brain. He turned quickly, however, entered the office, and with his uncle looking on, searched all over the floor. "Well?" "There's nothing here, sir. Of course not," cried Don eagerly; "Mrs Wimble sweeps up every morning, and if there had been she would have found it." Uncle Josiah lifted off his cocked hat, and put it on again wrong way first. "This is a very unpleasant affair, Lindon," he said. "I can afford to lose seven guineas, or seven hundred if it came to that, but I can't afford to lose confidence in those whom I employ." Don felt hot and cold as his uncle walked to the door and called Jem; and as he waited he looked at the map of an estate in the West Indies, all fly-specked and yellow, then at the portraits of three merchant vessels in full sail, all as yellow and fly-specked as the map, and showing the peculiarity emphasised by the ingenious artist, of their sails blown out one way and their house
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went on thinking of many things, to fall into a state of unconsciousness at last, from which he awoke to the fact that it was day--a very eventful day for him, but he did not awaken to the fact that he was very blind. CHAPTER THREE. AN AWKWARD GUINEA. It was a busy day at the yard, for a part of the lading of a sugar ship was being stored away in Uncle Josiah's warehouses; but from the very commencement matters seemed to go wrong, and the state of affairs about ten o'clock was pretty ably expressed by Jem Wimble, who came up to Don as he was busy with pencil and book, keeping account of the deliveries, and said in a loud voice,-- "What did your uncle have for breakfast, Mas' Don?" "Coffee--ham--I hardly know, Jem." "Ho! Thought p'r'aps it had been cayenne pepper." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say that, but see how he is going it. 'Tarn't my fault that the dock men work so badly, and 'tarn't my fault that Mike isn't here, and--" "Don't stand talking to Wimble, Lindon," said a voice sharply, and Uncle Josiah came up to the pair. "No, don't go away, Wimble. Did Bannock say he should stay away to-day?" "Not to me, uncle." "Nor to me, sir." "It's very strange, just as we are so busy too. He has not drawn any money." "P'r'aps press-gang's got him, sir," suggested Jem. "Humph! Hardly likely!" said Uncle Josiah; and he went on and entered the office, to come out at the end of a few minutes and beckon to Don. "Lindon," he said, as the lad joined him, "I left nine guineas and a half in the little mahogany bowl in my desk yesterday. Whom have you paid?" "Paid? No one, sir." "But eight guineas are gone--missing." "Eight guineas? Missing, sir?" "Yes, do you know anything about them?" "No, sir. I--that is--yes, I remember now: I picked up a guinea on the floor, and meant to give it to you. Here it is: I forgot all about it." Don took a piece of gold from his flap waistcoat pocket, and handed it to his uncle, who looked at him so curiously that the boy grew confused. "Picked this up on the floor, Lindon?" said Uncle Josiah. "Yes, sir. It had rolled down by my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed to him that his uncle looked at him doubtingly, and this brought a feeling of hot indignation into the boy's brain. He turned quickly, however, entered the office, and with his uncle looking on, searched all over the floor. "Well?" "There's nothing here, sir. Of course not," cried Don eagerly; "Mrs Wimble sweeps up every morning, and if there had been she would have found it." Uncle Josiah lifted off his cocked hat, and put it on again wrong way first. "This is a very unpleasant affair, Lindon," he said. "I can afford to lose seven guineas, or seven hundred if it came to that, but I can't afford to lose confidence in those whom I employ." Don felt hot and cold as his uncle walked to the door and called Jem; and as he waited he looked at the map of an estate in the West Indies, all fly-specked and yellow, then at the portraits of three merchant vessels in full sail, all as yellow and fly-specked as the map, and showing the peculiarity emphasised by the ingenious artist, of their sails blown out one way and their house flags another. "Surely uncle can't suspect me," he said to himself; and then the thought came again-- "surely uncle can't suspect me." "Come in here, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, very sternly. Jem took off his hat, and followed him into the office. "Some money is missing from my desk, Wimble. Have you seen it?" "Me, sir?" said Jem, stooping down and peering in all directions under the desks. "No, sir, I harn't seen it. Let's see, I don't think I've been here only when I locked up." "By some mischance I left my desk unlocked when I went out in a hurry yesterday. Lindon here has found one piece on the floor." "P'r'aps tothers is there, too," said Jem eagerly. "No; we have looked. Call your wife. Perhaps she may have found them when sweeping." "Not she, sir," said Jem. "If she had she'd ha' told me. 'Sides, how could they ha' got on the floor?" "That remains to be proved, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, drily. "Call your wife." Jem went to the door, rubbing his ear, and as it happened, seeing his wife outside the cottage, telegraphed to her to come by working one arm about furiously. Little Mrs
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defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me." "Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more." "It's of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It's like being uncle's slave." "What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?" said Mrs Lavington. "Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle's treatment. There, I shall say no more now." "You always treat me as if I were a child," said Don, bitterly. "I'm seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something." "Yes, my boy," said Mrs Lavington gently; "at seventeen we think we know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a very little that `good deal' was." Don shook his head. "There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can to make us happy." "I wish I could think so," cried Don, bitterly. "You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is true." "But I have no home till I make one," said the lad gloomily. "You have an excellent home here, Don, the gift of one who has kindly taken the place toward you of your father. There, I will listen to no more from you, for this is all foolish fighting of your worse against your better self." There was a quiet dignity in his mother's words which awed Don for the moment, but the gentle embrace given the next minute seemed to undo that which the firmness had achieved, and that night the cloud over the lad's life seemed darker than ever. "She takes uncle's side and thinks he is everything," he said gloomily, as he went to bed. "She means right, but she is wrong. Oh, how I wish I could go right away somewhere and begin life all over again." Then he lay down to sleep, but slumber did not come, so he went on thinking of many things, to fall into a state of unconsciousness at last, from which he awoke to the fact that it was day--a very eventful day for him, but he did not awaken to the fact that he was very blind. CHAPTER THREE. AN AWKWARD GUINEA. It was a busy day at the yard, for a part of the lading of a sugar ship was being stored away in Uncle Josiah's warehouses; but from the very commencement matters seemed to go wrong, and the state of affairs about ten o'clock was pretty ably expressed by Jem Wimble, who came up to Don as he was busy with pencil and book, keeping account of the deliveries, and said in a loud voice,-- "What did your uncle have for breakfast, Mas' Don?" "Coffee--ham--I hardly know, Jem." "Ho! Thought p'r'aps it had been cayenne pepper." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say that, but see how he is going it. 'Tarn't my fault that the dock men work so badly, and 'tarn't my fault that Mike isn't here, and--" "Don't stand talking to Wimble, Lindon," said a voice sharply, and Uncle Josiah came up to the pair. "No, don't go away, Wimble. Did Bannock say he should stay away to-day?" "Not to me, uncle." "Nor to me, sir." "It's very strange, just as we are so busy too. He has not drawn any money." "P'r'aps press-gang's got him, sir," suggested Jem. "Humph! Hardly likely!" said Uncle Josiah; and he went on and entered the office, to come out at the end of a few minutes and beckon to Don. "Lindon," he said, as the lad joined him, "I left nine guineas and a half in the little mahogany bowl in my desk yesterday. Whom have you paid?" "Paid? No one, sir." "But eight guineas are gone--missing." "Eight guineas? Missing, sir?" "Yes, do you know anything about them?" "No, sir. I--that is--yes, I remember now: I picked up a guinea on the floor, and meant to give it to you. Here it is: I forgot all about it." Don took a piece of gold from his flap waistcoat pocket, and handed it to his uncle, who looked at him so curiously that the boy grew confused. "Picked this up on the floor, Lindon?" said Uncle Josiah. "Yes, sir. It had rolled down by my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed to him that his uncle looked at him doubtingly, and this brought a feeling of hot indignation into the boy's brain. He turned quickly, however, entered the office, and with his uncle looking on, searched all over the floor. "Well?" "There's nothing here, sir. Of course not," cried Don eagerly; "Mrs Wimble sweeps up every morning, and if there had been she would have found it." Uncle Josiah lifted off his cocked hat, and put it on again wrong way first. "This is a very unpleasant affair, Lindon," he said. "I can afford to lose seven guineas, or seven hundred if it came to that, but I can't afford to lose confidence in those whom I employ." Don felt hot and cold as his uncle walked to the door and called Jem; and as he waited he looked at the map of an estate in the West Indies, all fly-specked and yellow, then at the portraits of three merchant vessels in full sail, all as yellow and fly-specked as the map, and showing the peculiarity emphasised by the ingenious artist, of their sails blown out one way and their house flags another. "Surely uncle can't suspect me," he said to himself; and then the thought came again-- "surely uncle can't suspect me." "Come in here, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, very sternly. Jem took off his hat, and followed him into the office. "Some money is missing from my desk, Wimble. Have you seen it?" "Me, sir?" said Jem, stooping down and peering in all directions under the desks. "No, sir, I harn't seen it. Let's see, I don't think I've been here only when I locked up." "By some mischance I left my desk unlocked when I went out in a hurry yesterday. Lindon here has found one piece on the floor." "P'r'aps tothers is there, too," said Jem eagerly. "No; we have looked. Call your wife. Perhaps she may have found them when sweeping." "Not she, sir," said Jem. "If she had she'd ha' told me. 'Sides, how could they ha' got on the floor?" "That remains to be proved, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, drily. "Call your wife." Jem went to the door, rubbing his ear, and as it happened, seeing his wife outside the cottage, telegraphed to her to come by working one arm about furiously. Little Mrs Wimble came up in a hurry, looking scared. "Take off that there dirty apron," whispered Jem, making a dash at the offending garment, and snatching back his hand bleeding from the scratch of the pin by which it was fastened. "Look at that," he began. "Then you shouldn't--" "Silence!" said Uncle Josiah. "Mrs Wimble, did you sweep up this room to-day?" "That I did, sir, and dusted too, and if there's any dust, it must be an--" "Hush! Don't talk so. Listen to me. Did you find any money on the floor?" "Sakes alive, sir, no." "You are quite sure?" "Oh yes, sir, quite sure. Have you dropped anything?" "Yes! No! That will do." Mrs Wimble stared. "Don't you hear?" whispered Jem. "Be off!" The little woman gave him an angry look, and then hurried from the office, looking put out and hurt. "This money must be found," said Uncle Josiah sternly, as soon as they were alone. "You are sure that you have seen no more, Lindon?" "Quite, uncle. I'm sorry I forgot about the guinea I found." "Yes!" said Uncle Josiah, giving him a quick searching look. "You are quite certain, Wimble?" "Me, sir? Oh, yes; I'm moral sartain." "I should be sorry to suspect any one, and behave unjustly, but I must have this matter cleared up. Michael Bannock is away, and I cannot conceive his being absent without money, unless he is ill. Wimble, go and see." "Yes, sir," said the yard-man, with alacrity; and he went off shaking his head, as if all this was a puzzle beyond his capacity to comprehend. "You had better go to your desk, Lindon," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. Don started, and mounted his stool, but he could not write. His brain was confused; and from time to time he glanced at the stern-looking old merchant, and tried to grasp his thoughts. "Surely uncle can't suspect me--surely he can't suspect me!" he found himself saying again, and the trouble seemed to increase till he felt as if he must speak out and say how sorry he was that he had picked up the money and forgotten all about it, when Jem returned. "He arn't ill, sir," said the man eagerly, "I found him close by, at the Little Half Moon, in the back street." "Drinking?" "Yes, sir, and treating a lot of his mates. He wanted me to have some,
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is all foolish fighting of your worse against your better self." There was a quiet dignity in his mother's words which awed Don for the moment, but the gentle embrace given the next minute seemed to undo that which the firmness had achieved, and that night the cloud over the lad's life seemed darker than ever. "She takes uncle's side and thinks he is everything," he said gloomily, as he went to bed. "She means right, but she is wrong. Oh, how I wish I could go right away somewhere and begin life all over again." Then he lay down to sleep, but slumber did not come, so he went on thinking of many things, to fall into a state of unconsciousness at last, from which he awoke to the fact that it was day--a very eventful day for him, but he did not awaken to the fact that he was very blind. CHAPTER THREE. AN AWKWARD GUINEA. It was a busy day at the yard, for a part of the lading of a sugar ship was being stored away in Uncle Josiah's warehouses; but from the very commencement matters seemed to go wrong, and the state of affairs about ten o'clock was pretty ably expressed by Jem Wimble, who came up to Don as he was busy with pencil and book, keeping account of the deliveries, and said in a loud voice,-- "What did your uncle have for breakfast, Mas' Don?" "Coffee--ham--I hardly know, Jem." "Ho! Thought p'r'aps it had been cayenne pepper." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say that, but see how he is going it. 'Tarn't my fault that the dock men work so badly, and 'tarn't my fault that Mike isn't here, and--" "Don't stand talking to Wimble, Lindon," said a voice sharply, and Uncle Josiah came up to the pair. "No, don't go away, Wimble. Did Bannock say he should stay away to-day?" "Not to me, uncle." "Nor to me, sir." "It's very strange, just as we are so busy too. He has not drawn any money." "P'r'aps press-gang's got him, sir," suggested Jem. "Humph! Hardly likely!" said Uncle Josiah; and he went on and entered the office, to come out at the end of a few minutes and beckon to Don. "Lindon," he said, as the lad joined him, "I left nine guineas and a half in the little mahogany bowl in my desk yesterday. Whom have you paid?" "Paid? No one, sir." "But eight guineas are gone--missing." "Eight guineas? Missing, sir?" "Yes, do you know anything about them?" "No, sir. I--that is--yes, I remember now: I picked up a guinea on the floor, and meant to give it to you. Here it is: I forgot all about it." Don took a piece of gold from his flap waistcoat pocket, and handed it to his uncle, who looked at him so curiously that the boy grew confused. "Picked this up on the floor, Lindon?" said Uncle Josiah. "Yes, sir. It had rolled down by my desk." "It is very strange," said Uncle Josiah, thoughtfully.<|quote|>"Well, that leaves seven missing. You had better look round and see if you can find them."</|quote|>Don felt uncomfortable, he hardly knew why; but it seemed to him that his uncle looked at him doubtingly, and this brought a feeling of hot indignation into the boy's brain. He turned quickly, however, entered the office, and with his uncle looking on, searched all over the floor. "Well?" "There's nothing here, sir. Of course not," cried Don eagerly; "Mrs Wimble sweeps up every morning, and if there had been she would have found it." Uncle Josiah lifted off his cocked hat, and put it on again wrong way first. "This is a very unpleasant affair, Lindon," he said. "I can afford to lose seven guineas, or seven hundred if it came to that, but I can't afford to lose confidence in those whom I employ." Don felt hot and cold as his uncle walked to the door and called Jem; and as he waited he looked at the map of an estate in the West Indies, all fly-specked and yellow, then at the portraits of three merchant vessels in full sail, all as yellow and fly-specked as the map, and showing the peculiarity emphasised by the ingenious artist, of their sails blown out one way and their house flags another. "Surely uncle can't suspect me," he said to himself; and then the thought came again-- "surely uncle can't suspect me." "Come in here, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, very sternly. Jem took off his hat, and followed him into the office. "Some money is missing from my desk, Wimble. Have you seen it?" "Me, sir?" said Jem, stooping down and peering in all directions under the desks. "No, sir, I harn't seen it. Let's see, I don't think I've been here only when I locked up." "By some mischance I left my desk unlocked when I went out in a hurry yesterday. Lindon here has found one piece on the floor." "P'r'aps tothers is there, too," said Jem eagerly. "No; we have looked. Call your wife. Perhaps she may have found them when sweeping." "Not she, sir," said Jem. "If she had she'd ha' told me. 'Sides, how could they ha' got on the floor?" "That remains to be proved, Wimble," said Uncle Josiah, drily. "Call your wife." Jem went to the door, rubbing his ear, and as it happened, seeing his wife outside the cottage, telegraphed to her to come by working one arm about furiously. Little Mrs Wimble came up in a hurry, looking scared. "Take off that there dirty apron," whispered Jem, making a dash at the offending garment, and snatching back his hand bleeding from the scratch of the pin by which it was fastened. "Look at that," he began. "Then you shouldn't--" "Silence!" said Uncle Josiah. "Mrs Wimble, did you sweep up this room to-day?" "That I did, sir, and dusted too, and if there's any dust, it must be an--" "Hush! Don't talk so. Listen to me. Did you find any money on the floor?" "Sakes alive, sir, no." "You are quite sure?" "Oh yes, sir, quite sure. Have you dropped anything?" "Yes! No! That will do." Mrs Wimble stared. "Don't you hear?" whispered Jem. "Be off!" The little woman gave him an angry look, and then hurried from the office, looking put out and hurt. "This money must be found," said Uncle Josiah sternly, as soon as they were alone. "You are sure that you have seen no more, Lindon?" "Quite, uncle. I'm sorry I forgot about the
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Don Lavington
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"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"
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Jem Wimble
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moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant,
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the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.
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in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to
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didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going,
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sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted
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his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble
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yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you." "Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better take Kitty back home and wait." "You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and trust to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?" "I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura," said the old merchant, gravely. "Then it is not true?" "It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him." "But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew--your sister's boy." "I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home," said the old man, quietly. "When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people." Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, "Indeed, uncle, I always have done so," when the old man's next words seemed to chill and harden him. "But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better
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a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply. Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don. "Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply. "Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?" "Well?" "Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder." "And he is now safely locked up?" "Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me." "I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old merchant, coldly. "That will do, now." Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.<|quote|>"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"</|quote|>"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped. "Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been
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Don Lavington
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"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."
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Jem Wimble
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upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this
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when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had
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it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in
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"Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till
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night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there
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a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst." "A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don. "Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't think o' them words, but they're just what he is.--Say, Mas' Don." "Don't, don't, don't, Jem." "Don't what, Mas' Don?" "Don't do that. _Master Don_. It sounds so foolish, and it's ridiculous, seeing what we are." "All right, my lad, I'll be careful; but what I wanted to say was, would there be any harm in taking Master Ramsden by his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way." "That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?" "Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `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;
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"Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much." "Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves." "What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst." "A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don. "Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't think o' them words, but they're just what he is.--Say, Mas' Don." "Don't, don't, don't, Jem." "Don't what, Mas' Don?" "Don't do that. _Master Don_. It sounds so foolish, and it's ridiculous, seeing what we are." "All right, my lad, I'll be careful; but what I wanted to say was, would there be any harm in taking Master Ramsden by his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way." "That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?" "Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `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
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his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting." "Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."<|quote|>"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, `It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."</|quote|>"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief." "Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners." The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away. "All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper. "Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?" "Mean what?" "Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone." "I mean it, Jem." "That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better." "How can we go?" "How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark." "In irons?" "They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore." "And the sharks, Jem?" "Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way." "That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?" "Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, `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
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Don Lavington
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The two princes looked at each other and blushed.
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No speaker
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I expect of seeing you?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we
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she consented to the pleasure I expect of seeing you?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we beg your majesty to excuse
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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?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"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
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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?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"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
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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?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"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
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"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?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"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 oppose them; therefore, if to follow my inclination I should dissuade you from obeying him, it may expose you to his resentment, and may render myself and you miserable. These are my sentiments; but before we conclude upon anything let us consult the Talking Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised
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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," replied the emperor, "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?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"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 oppose them; therefore, if to follow my inclination I should dissuade you from obeying him, it may expose you to his resentment, and may render myself and you miserable. These are my sentiments; but before we conclude upon anything let us consult the Talking Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised his assistance in all difficulties." The princess sent for the cage, and after she had related the circumstances to the Bird in the presence of her brothers, asked him what they should do in this perplexity. The Bird answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house." "But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?" "Not at all," replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward. Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered to speak to their sister. Prince Bahman approached and answered: "Sir, we are ready to obey you, for we have not only obtained our sister's consent with great ease, but she took it amiss that we should pay her that deference in a matter wherein our duty to your majesty was concerned. If we have offended, we hope you will pardon us." "Do not be uneasy," replied the emperor. "I highly approve of your conduct, and hope you will have the same deference and attachment to my person, if I have ever so little share in your friendship." The princes, confounded at the emperor's goodness, returned no other answer but a low obeisance. The emperor, contrary to his usual custom, did not hunt long that day. Presuming that the princes possessed wit equal to their courage and bravery, he longed with impatience to converse with them more at liberty. He made them ride on each side of him, an honour which was envied by the grand vizier, who was much mortified to see them preferred before him. When the emperor entered his capital, the eyes of the people, who stood in crowds in the streets, were fixed upon the two Princes Bahman and Perviz; and they were earnest to know who they might be. All, however, agreed in wishing that the emperor had been blessed with two such handsome princes, and said that his children would have been about the same age, if the queen had not been so unfortunate as to lose them. The first thing the emperor
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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," replied the emperor, "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?"<|quote|>The two princes looked at each other and blushed.</|quote|>"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
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Arabian Nights (1)
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"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"
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William Rodney
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house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time
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we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained
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as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had
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has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell
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against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood.
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it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him. "There are so many things that she doesn t understand," he reflected, glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside. What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so much enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment, enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did
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inimitably graceful species of musical mole. The little picture suggested very happily her melodious and whimsical temperament. The enthusiasms of a young girl of distinguished upbringing appealed to William, and suggested a thousand ways in which, with his training and accomplishments, he could be of service to her. She ought to be given the chance of hearing good music, as it is played by those who have inherited the great tradition. Moreover, from one or two remarks let fall in the course of conversation, he thought it possible that she had what Katharine professed to lack, a passionate, if untaught, appreciation of literature. He had lent her his play. Meanwhile, as Katharine was certain to be late, and "The Magic Flute" is nothing without a voice, he felt inclined to spend the time of waiting in writing a letter to Cassandra, exhorting her to read Pope in preference to Dostoevsky, until her feeling for form was more highly developed. He set himself down to compose this piece of advice in a shape which was light and playful, and yet did no injury to a cause which he had near at heart, when he heard Katharine upon the stairs. A moment later it was plain that he had been mistaken, it was not Katharine; but he could not settle himself to his letter. His temper had changed from one of urbane contentment indeed of delicious expansion to one of uneasiness and expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to be set by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond the specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which had depressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness of one of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holiday until later in the year, which would mean the postponement of their marriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable as the probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of the clock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Such things had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him. "There are so many things that she doesn t understand," he reflected, glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside. What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so much enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment, enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind glass. He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency, and illustrated quite beyond doubt the infinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth of this so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed to her that even physically they were now scarcely within speaking distance; and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whom she could claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame. When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for
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happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him. "There are so many things that she doesn t understand," he reflected, glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside. What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so much enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment, enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully.<|quote|>"It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been,"</|quote|>he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you
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Night And Day
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I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'
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No speaker
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and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but
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morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him;
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rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house." I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and
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a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house." I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he
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look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house." I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his
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to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers. "Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house." I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says" Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' Have you?' "said Chickweed." Oh,
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suspected them, in this case," said Mrs. Maylie. "Wery likely not, ma'am," replied Blathers; "but they might have been in it, for all that." "More likely on that wery account," said Duff. "We find it was a town hand," said Blathers, continuing his report; "for the style of work is first-rate." "Wery pretty indeed it is," remarked Duff, in an undertone. "There was two of 'em in it," continued Blathers; "and they had a boy with 'em; that's plain from the size of the window. That's all to be said at present. We'll see this lad that you've got upstairs at once, if you please." "Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?" said the doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him. "Oh! to be sure!" exclaimed Rose, eagerly. "You shall have it immediately, if you will." "Why, thank you, miss!" said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his mouth; "it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts." "What shall it be?" asked the doctor, following the young lady to the sideboard. "A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same," replied Blathers. "It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes home warmer to the feelings." This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped out of the room. "Ah!" said Mr. Blathers: not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand: and placing it in front of his chest; "I have seen a good many pieces of business like this, in my time, ladies." "That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers," said Mr. Duff, assisting his colleague's memory. "That was something in this way, warn't it?" rejoined Mr. Blathers; "that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was." "You always gave that to him" replied Duff. "It was the Family Pet, I tell you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had." "Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers. "Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house." I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. "Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says" Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' Have you?' "said Chickweed." Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!' Come!' "said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff," none of that gammon! You did it yourself.' "So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up appearances!" said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together. "Very curious, indeed," observed the doctor. "Now, if you please, you can walk upstairs." "If _you_ please, sir," returned Mr. Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the party, with a lighted candle. Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding what was going forward in fact, without seeming to recollect where he was, or what had been passing. "This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's grounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with the candle in his hand: who has placed his life in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify." Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity. "You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?" said the doctor, laying Oliver gently down again. "It was all done for the for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir." "Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer. "The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied Giles. "They they certainly had a boy." "Well? Do you think so now?" inquired Blathers. "Think what, now?" replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. "Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?" rejoined Blathers, impatiently. "I don't
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novel-book _I_ ever see!" "What was that?" inquired Rose: anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-humour in the unwelcome visitors. "It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed" "Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff. "Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers. "Always interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en. He warn't one of the family, at that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window: which was only a story high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a blunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or four days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day he came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house." I see him, Spyers,' "said Chickweed," pass my house yesterday morning,' Why didn't you up, and collar him!' "says Spyers."<|quote|>I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,'</|quote|>"says the poor man;" but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again.' "Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out," Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!' "Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out," Thieves!' "and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in;" Which is the man?' D me!' "says Chickweed," I've lost him again!' "It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out," Here he is!' "Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief." "What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor; who had returned to the
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Oliver Twist
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"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."
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Mr. Woodhouse
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my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies
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tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton
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Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you." "Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so
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beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you." "Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to
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upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you." "Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had
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the gentlewoman." "Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman." "And who do you think came in while we were there?" Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and how could she possibly guess? "Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s, I had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man." Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could breathe. "Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you." "Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. CHAPTER XV Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass. There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted that
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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 her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman." "Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman." "And who do you think came in while we were there?" Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and how could she possibly guess? "Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s, I had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man." Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could breathe. "Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you." "Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. CHAPTER XV Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass. There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good grace of her being "very pleasant and very elegantly dressed." In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners, too--and Mr. Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much.--It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.--When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet. Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry on the subject.-- "Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave about Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and ladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she is absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth--but, upon my word, I talk
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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 her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman." "Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman." "And who do you think came in while we were there?" Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and how could she possibly guess? "Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s, I had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man." Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could breathe. "Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began,<|quote|>"considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."</|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you." "Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. CHAPTER XV Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass. There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good grace of her being "very pleasant and very elegantly dressed." In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was
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Emma
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Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:
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No speaker
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very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very.
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and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot
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I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well." Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad." "Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it." It is my mother who says
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three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of liver-sausage, a pound of dripping and a little bag of rice. "I suppose you can make some use of that----" They nod. "Is it pretty bad for food here?" I enquire. "Yes, there's not much. Do you get enough out there?" I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well." Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad." "Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it." It is my mother who says that. She says: "With the gas and all the rest of it." She does not know what she is saying, she is merely anxious for me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy trenches with their garrison all stiff as though stricken with apoplexy? Against the parapet,
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in brown and gold. I breathe deeply and say over to myself:-- "You are at home, you are at home." But a sense of strangeness will not leave me, I can find nothing of myself in all these things. There is my mother, there is my sister, there my case of butterflies, and there the mahogany piano--but I am not myself there. There is a distance, a veil between us. I go and fetch my pack to the bedside and turn out the things I have brought--a whole Edamer cheese, that Kat provided me with, two loaves of army bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of liver-sausage, a pound of dripping and a little bag of rice. "I suppose you can make some use of that----" They nod. "Is it pretty bad for food here?" I enquire. "Yes, there's not much. Do you get enough out there?" I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well." Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad." "Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it." It is my mother who says that. She says: "With the gas and all the rest of it." She does not know what she is saying, she is merely anxious for me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy trenches with their garrison all stiff as though stricken with apoplexy? Against the parapet, in the dugouts, just where they were, the men stood and lay about, with blue faces, dead. "No, mother, that's only talk," I answer, "there's not very much in what Bredemeyer says. You see for instance, I'm well and fit----" Before my mother's tremulous anxiety I recover my composure. Now I can walk about and talk and answer questions without fear of having suddenly to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as rubber and my veins become brimstone. My mother wants to get up. So I go for a while to my sister in the kitchen. "What
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I add. "Sit here beside me," says my mother. She looks at me. Her hands are white and sickly and frail compared with mine. We say very little, and I am thankful that she asks nothing. What ought I to say? Everything I could have wished for has happened. I have come out of it safely and sit here beside her. And in the kitchen stands my sister making the evening bread and singing. "Dear boy," says my mother softly. We were never very demonstrative in our family; poor folk who toil and are full of cares are not so. It is not their way to protest what they already know. When my mother says to me "dear boy," it means much more than when another uses it. I know well enough that the jar of whortleberries is the only one they have had for months, and that she has kept it for me; and the somewhat stale cakes that she gives me too. She has taken a favourable opportunity of getting a few and has put them all by for me. I sit by her bed, and through the window the chestnut trees in the beer garden opposite glow in brown and gold. I breathe deeply and say over to myself:-- "You are at home, you are at home." But a sense of strangeness will not leave me, I can find nothing of myself in all these things. There is my mother, there is my sister, there my case of butterflies, and there the mahogany piano--but I am not myself there. There is a distance, a veil between us. I go and fetch my pack to the bedside and turn out the things I have brought--a whole Edamer cheese, that Kat provided me with, two loaves of army bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of liver-sausage, a pound of dripping and a little bag of rice. "I suppose you can make some use of that----" They nod. "Is it pretty bad for food here?" I enquire. "Yes, there's not much. Do you get enough out there?" I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well." Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad." "Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it." It is my mother who says that. She says: "With the gas and all the rest of it." She does not know what she is saying, she is merely anxious for me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy trenches with their garrison all stiff as though stricken with apoplexy? Against the parapet, in the dugouts, just where they were, the men stood and lay about, with blue faces, dead. "No, mother, that's only talk," I answer, "there's not very much in what Bredemeyer says. You see for instance, I'm well and fit----" Before my mother's tremulous anxiety I recover my composure. Now I can walk about and talk and answer questions without fear of having suddenly to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as rubber and my veins become brimstone. My mother wants to get up. So I go for a while to my sister in the kitchen. "What is the matter with her?" I ask. She shrugs her shoulders: "She has been in bed two months now, but we did not want to write and tell you. Several doctors have been to see her. One of them said it is probably cancer again." * * I go to the district commandant to report myself. Slowly I wander through the streets. Occasionally someone speaks to me. I do not delay long for I have little inclination to talk. On my way back from the barracks a loud voice calls out to me. Still lost in thought I turn round and find myself confronted by a Major. "Can't you salute?" he blusters. "Sorry, Major," I say in embarrassment, "I didn't notice you." "Don't you know how to speak properly?" he roars. I would like to hit him in the face, but control myself, for my leave depends on it. I click my heels and say: "I did not see you, Herr Major." "Then keep your eyes open," he snorts. "What is your name?" I give it. His fat red face is furious. "What regiment?" I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough. "Where are they?" But
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nod, my pack bumps against the banisters; my rifle is so heavy. She pulls a door open and calls: "Mother, mother, Paul is here." I can go no further--mother, mother, Paul is here. I lean against the wall and grip my helmet and rifle. I hold them as tight as I can, but I cannot take another step, the staircase fades before my eyes, I support myself with the butt of my rifle against my feet and clench my teeth fiercely, but I cannot speak a word, my sister's call has made me powerless, I can do nothing, I struggle to make myself laugh, to speak, but no word comes, and so I stand on the steps, miserable, helpless, paralysed, and against my will the tears run down my cheeks. My sister comes back and says: "Why, what is the matter?" Then I pull myself together and stagger on to the landing. I lean my rifle in a corner, I set my pack against the wall, place my helmet on it, and fling down my equipment and baggage. Then I say fiercely: "Bring me a handkerchief." She gives me one from the cupboard and I dry my face. Above me on the wall hangs the glass case with the coloured butterflies that once I collected. Now I hear my mother's voice. It comes from the bedroom. "Is she in bed?" I ask my sister. "She is ill--" she replies. I go in to her, give her my hand and say as calmly as I can: "Here I am, mother." She lies still in the dim light. Then she asks anxiously: "Are you wounded?" and I feel her searching glance. "No, I have got leave." My mother is very pale. I am afraid to make a light. "Here I lie now," says she, "and cry instead of being glad." "Are you sick, mother?" I ask. "I am going to get up a little to-day," she says and turns to my sister, who is continually running to the kitchen to watch that the food does not burn: "And put out the jar of preserved whortleberries--you like that, don't you?" she asks me. "Yes, mother, I haven't had any for a long time." "We might almost have known you were coming," laughs my sister, "there is just your favourite dish, potato-cakes, and even whortle-berries to go with them too." "And it is Saturday," I add. "Sit here beside me," says my mother. She looks at me. Her hands are white and sickly and frail compared with mine. We say very little, and I am thankful that she asks nothing. What ought I to say? Everything I could have wished for has happened. I have come out of it safely and sit here beside her. And in the kitchen stands my sister making the evening bread and singing. "Dear boy," says my mother softly. We were never very demonstrative in our family; poor folk who toil and are full of cares are not so. It is not their way to protest what they already know. When my mother says to me "dear boy," it means much more than when another uses it. I know well enough that the jar of whortleberries is the only one they have had for months, and that she has kept it for me; and the somewhat stale cakes that she gives me too. She has taken a favourable opportunity of getting a few and has put them all by for me. I sit by her bed, and through the window the chestnut trees in the beer garden opposite glow in brown and gold. I breathe deeply and say over to myself:-- "You are at home, you are at home." But a sense of strangeness will not leave me, I can find nothing of myself in all these things. There is my mother, there is my sister, there my case of butterflies, and there the mahogany piano--but I am not myself there. There is a distance, a veil between us. I go and fetch my pack to the bedside and turn out the things I have brought--a whole Edamer cheese, that Kat provided me with, two loaves of army bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of liver-sausage, a pound of dripping and a little bag of rice. "I suppose you can make some use of that----" They nod. "Is it pretty bad for food here?" I enquire. "Yes, there's not much. Do you get enough out there?" I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well." Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad." "Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it." It is my mother who says that. She says: "With the gas and all the rest of it." She does not know what she is saying, she is merely anxious for me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy trenches with their garrison all stiff as though stricken with apoplexy? Against the parapet, in the dugouts, just where they were, the men stood and lay about, with blue faces, dead. "No, mother, that's only talk," I answer, "there's not very much in what Bredemeyer says. You see for instance, I'm well and fit----" Before my mother's tremulous anxiety I recover my composure. Now I can walk about and talk and answer questions without fear of having suddenly to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as rubber and my veins become brimstone. My mother wants to get up. So I go for a while to my sister in the kitchen. "What is the matter with her?" I ask. She shrugs her shoulders: "She has been in bed two months now, but we did not want to write and tell you. Several doctors have been to see her. One of them said it is probably cancer again." * * I go to the district commandant to report myself. Slowly I wander through the streets. Occasionally someone speaks to me. I do not delay long for I have little inclination to talk. On my way back from the barracks a loud voice calls out to me. Still lost in thought I turn round and find myself confronted by a Major. "Can't you salute?" he blusters. "Sorry, Major," I say in embarrassment, "I didn't notice you." "Don't you know how to speak properly?" he roars. I would like to hit him in the face, but control myself, for my leave depends on it. I click my heels and say: "I did not see you, Herr Major." "Then keep your eyes open," he snorts. "What is your name?" I give it. His fat red face is furious. "What regiment?" I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough. "Where are they?" But I have had more than enough and say: "Between Langemark and Bixschoote." "Eh?" he asks, a bit stupefied. I explain to him that I arrived on leave only an hour or two since, thinking that he would then trot along. But not at all. He gets even more furious: "You think you can bring your front-line manners here, what? Well, we don't stand that sort of thing. Thank God, we have discipline here!" "Twenty paces backwards, double march!" he commands. I am mad with rage. But I cannot say anything to him; he could put me under arrest if he liked. So I double back, and then march up to him. Six paces from him I spring to a stiff salute and maintain it until I am six paces beyond him. He calls me back again and affably gives me to understand that for once he is pleased to put mercy before justice. I pretend to be duly grateful. "Now, dismiss!" he says. I turn about smartly and march off. That ruins the evening for me. I go back home and throw my uniform into a corner; I ought to have done that before. Then I take out my civilian clothes from the wardrobe and put them on. I feel awkward. The suit is rather tight and short, I have grown in the army. Collar and tie give me some trouble. In the end my sister ties the bow for me. But how light the suit is, it feels as though I had nothing on but a shirt and underpants. I look at myself in the glass. It is a strange sight. A sunburnt, overgrown candidate for confirmation gazes at me in astonishment. My mother is pleased to see me wearing civilian clothes; it makes me less strange to her. But my father would rather I kept my uniform on so that he could take me to visit his acquaintances. But I refuse. * * It is pleasant to sit quietly somewhere, in the beer-garden for example, under the chestnuts by the skittle-alley. The leaves fall down on the table and on the ground, only a few, the first. A glass of beer stands in front of me, I've learned to drink in the army. The glass is half empty, but there are still a few good swigs ahead of me, and besides I can always order a second and
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when another uses it. I know well enough that the jar of whortleberries is the only one they have had for months, and that she has kept it for me; and the somewhat stale cakes that she gives me too. She has taken a favourable opportunity of getting a few and has put them all by for me. I sit by her bed, and through the window the chestnut trees in the beer garden opposite glow in brown and gold. I breathe deeply and say over to myself:-- "You are at home, you are at home." But a sense of strangeness will not leave me, I can find nothing of myself in all these things. There is my mother, there is my sister, there my case of butterflies, and there the mahogany piano--but I am not myself there. There is a distance, a veil between us. I go and fetch my pack to the bedside and turn out the things I have brought--a whole Edamer cheese, that Kat provided me with, two loaves of army bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter, two tins of liver-sausage, a pound of dripping and a little bag of rice. "I suppose you can make some use of that----" They nod. "Is it pretty bad for food here?" I enquire. "Yes, there's not much. Do you get enough out there?" I smile and point to the things I have brought. "Not always quite so much as that, of course, but we fare reasonably well." Erna goes out to bring in the food. Suddenly my mother seizes hold of my hand and asks falteringly: "Was it very bad out there, Paul?"<|quote|>Mother, what should I answer to that! You would not understand, and never realize it. And you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say:</|quote|>"No, mother, not so very. There are always a lot of us together so it isn't so bad." "Yes, but Heinrich Bredemeyer was here just lately and he said it was terrible out there now, with the gas and all the rest of it." It is my mother who says that. She says: "With the gas and all the rest of it." She does not know what she is saying, she is merely anxious for me. Should I tell her how we once found three enemy trenches with their garrison all stiff as though stricken with apoplexy? Against the parapet, in the dugouts, just where they were, the men stood and lay about, with blue faces, dead. "No, mother, that's only talk," I answer, "there's not very much in what Bredemeyer says. You see for instance, I'm well and fit----" Before my mother's tremulous anxiety I recover my composure. Now I can walk about and talk and answer questions without fear of having suddenly to lean against the wall because the world turns soft as rubber and my veins become brimstone. My mother wants to get up. So I go for a while to my sister in the kitchen. "What is the matter with her?" I ask. She shrugs her shoulders: "She has been in bed two months now, but we did not want to write and tell you. Several doctors have been to see her. One of them said it is probably cancer again." * * I go to the district commandant to report myself. Slowly I wander through the streets. Occasionally someone speaks to me. I do not delay long for I have little inclination to talk. On my way back from the barracks a loud voice calls out to me. Still lost in thought I turn round and find myself confronted by a Major. "Can't you salute?" he blusters. "Sorry, Major," I say in embarrassment, "I didn't notice you." "Don't you know how to speak properly?" he roars. I would like to hit him in the face, but control myself, for my leave depends on it. I click my heels and say: "I did not see you, Herr Major." "Then keep your eyes open," he snorts. "What is your name?" I give it. His fat red face is furious. "What regiment?" I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough. "Where are they?" But I have had more than enough and say: "Between Langemark and Bixschoote." "Eh?" he asks, a bit stupefied. I explain to him that I arrived on leave only an hour or two since, thinking that he would then trot along. But not at
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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"very cold, certainly very cold,"
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Mr. Elton
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muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in
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very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls,
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resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. "You do quite right," said she;--" "we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston." But hardly had she so spoken, when she
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common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night." Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. "You do quite right," said she;--" "we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston." But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure
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with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night." Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. "You do quite right," said she;--" "we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston." But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her. "Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it--and this must be the case with
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rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint;--"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them." Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, "A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?" Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject, "It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night." Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. "You do quite right," said she;--" "we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston." But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her. "Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her." Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour. After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with-- "I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when
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be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also. Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consulted in every thing. The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears. Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint;--"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them." Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, "A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?" Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject, "It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night." Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. "You do quite right," said she;--" "we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston." But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her. "Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her." Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour. After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with-- "I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works." "Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value." "Yes," said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, "he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you." "Me!" she replied with a smile of astonishment, "are you imagining me to be Mr. Elton's object?" "Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now." "Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!" "I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do." "I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more. Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as
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door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint;--"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them." Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, "A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?" Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject, "It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night." Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being<|quote|>"very cold, certainly very cold,"</|quote|>and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. "You do quite right," said she;--" "we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston." But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her. "Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her." Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour. After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with-- "I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works." "Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority.
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Emma
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"This is mine,"
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Bill Gorton
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"Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't
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"How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd
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tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say.
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a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I
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Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied
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at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway." "I suppose not." We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He
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for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway." "I suppose not." We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. "Your friends are here," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley." He smiled as though there were something I would hear about. "When did they get in?" "Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had." "That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?" "Yes. All the rooms we looked at." "Where are our friends now?" "I think they went to the pelota." "And how about the bulls?" Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?" "Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada." Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll see you there." He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand. "Your friend, is he aficionado, too?" Montoya smiled at Bill. "Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the San Fermines." "Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado like you." He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly. "Yes," I said. "He's a real aficionado." "But he's not aficionado like you are." Aficion means passion. An aficionado is one who is passionate about the bull-fights. All the good bull-fighters stayed at Montoya's hotel; that is, those with aficion stayed there. The commercial bull-fighters stayed once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoya's room were their photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Juanito Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of bull-fighters Montoya had really believed in were framed. Photographs of bull-fighters who had been without aficion Montoya kept in a drawer of his desk. They often had the most flattering inscriptions. But they did not mean anything. One day Montoya took them all out and dropped them in the waste-basket. He did not want them around. We often talked about bulls and bull-fighters. I had stopped at the Montoya for several years. We never talked for very long at a time. It
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the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris.<|quote|>"This is mine,"</|quote|>said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway." "I suppose not." We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. "Your friends are here," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley." He smiled as though there were something I would hear about. "When did they get in?" "Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had." "That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?" "Yes. All the rooms we looked at." "Where are our friends now?" "I think they went to the pelota." "And how about the bulls?" Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?" "Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada." Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll see you there." He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would
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The Sun Also Rises
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said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.
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No speaker
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Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try
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partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of
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his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him." "Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early
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drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him." "Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger." "Morning!" said Charley Bates; "you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him." Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered
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a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him." "Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger." "Morning!" said Charley Bates; "you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him." Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness. "How precious dull you are, Tommy!" said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. "What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?" "How should I know, my dear?" replied the Jew,
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his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him." "Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger." "Morning!" said Charley Bates; "you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him." Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness. "How precious dull you are, Tommy!" said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. "What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?" "How should I know, my dear?" replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. "About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?" "Not a bit of it," replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. "What do _you_ say, Charley?" "_I_ should say," replied Master Bates, with a grin, "that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!" Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh. "Never mind him, my dear," said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. "Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her." "What I mean to say, Fagin,"
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told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him." "Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger." "Morning!" said Charley Bates; "you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him." Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness. "How precious dull you are, Tommy!" said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. "What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?" "How should I know, my dear?" replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. "About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?" "Not a bit of it," replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. "What do _you_ say, Charley?" "_I_ should say," replied Master Bates, with a grin, "that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!" Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh. "Never mind him, my dear," said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. "Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her." "What I mean to say, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, "is, that that isn't anything to anybody here." "No more it is," replied the Jew; "Charley will talk. Don't mind him, my dear; don't mind him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune." "So I _do_ do as she bids me," replied Mr. Chitling; "I shouldn't have been milled, if it hadn't been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?" "Ah, to be sure, my dear," replied the Jew. "You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you," asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, "if Bet was all right?" "I mean to say that I shouldn't," replied Tom, angrily. "There, now. Ah! Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?" "Nobody, my dear," replied the Jew; "not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear." "I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?" "To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew. "But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?" demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility. "No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!" "Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?" The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on
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his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!"<|quote|>said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.</|quote|>"Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again." "No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again' him." "Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early in the morning, to win against the Dodger." "Morning!" said Charley Bates; "you must put your boots on over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him." Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness. "How precious dull you are, Tommy!" said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. "What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?" "How should I know, my dear?" replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. "About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?" "Not a bit of it," replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. "What do _you_ say, Charley?" "_I_ should say," replied Master Bates, with a grin, "that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!" Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh. "Never mind him, my dear," said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving
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Oliver Twist
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"Isn't he a fool?"
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Brett Ashley
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hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count
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"Still I would like to hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I
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talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held
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The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is
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"I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes,"
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"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 cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out."
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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 cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the
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count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time."<|quote|>"Isn't he a fool?"</|quote|>Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"
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Wooden-Legged Man
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have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd,
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been easier for you to have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that
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I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to
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Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very
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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. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial." "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced
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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. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial." "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side." "Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken
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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. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial." "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side." "Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry." "I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well-known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the Queen s shilling and joining the 3rd Buffs, which was just starting for India." "I wasn t destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation." "I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for I was a useless cripple though not
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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. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."<|quote|>"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,"</|quote|>he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial." "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track. "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side." "Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God s truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I ll put my lips to it if I am dry." "I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers,
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The Sign Of The Four
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"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."
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Lucy Steele
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love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to
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a suspicious tendency. "Edward s love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this
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people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "Edward s love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined
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would be an alarming prospect; but Edward s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know." "That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your s. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "Edward s love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed
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his mother." "He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know." "That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your s. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "Edward s love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived." "All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us." "But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars s death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of
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and flattering to me?" "And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure." "Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother." "He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know." "That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your s. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "Edward s love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived." "All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us." "But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars s death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?" "If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward s sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures." "And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason." Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent. "Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor. "Not at all I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother silly and a great coxcomb." "A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne s music. "Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say." "No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are _not_ great coxcombs." "I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood s is not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one
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for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all." "Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little soul, how I do love her!" "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. CHAPTER XXIV. In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began. "I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again." "Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday." "Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?" "And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure." "Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother." "He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know." "That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your s. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "Edward s love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived." "All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us." "But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars s death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?" "If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward s sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures." "And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason." Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent. "Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor. "Not at all I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother silly and a great coxcomb." "A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne s music. "Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say." "No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are _not_ great coxcombs." "I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood s is not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes." "Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare say Lucy s beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood s." Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto, "I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest." "I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood _that_ must be recommendation enough to her husband." "But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward s going into orders." "Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little." They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh, "I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me
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and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure." "Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother." "He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know." "That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your s. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "Edward s love for me," said Lucy,<|quote|>"has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm on that account from the first."</|quote|>Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived." "All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us." "But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars s death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?" "If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward s sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures." "And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason." Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent. "Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor. "Not at all I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother silly and a great coxcomb." "A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne s music. "Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say." "No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are _not_ great coxcombs." "I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood s is not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes." "Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare say Lucy s beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood s." Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower
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Sense And Sensibility
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"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."
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Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad
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fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed
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object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it;
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the party left him, and proceeded; and there appeared to them in the distance a great black object, with two fires corresponding with each other in position; whereupon the Emeer Moosa said to the sheikh: "What is this great black object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it; and, lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some artifice. They
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reached not, and they are separated there from the rest of the sons of Adam." "And where," said the sheikh, "is the way to the City of Brass, and the place wherein are the bottles? What distance is there between us and it?" The efreet answered: "It is near." So the party left him, and proceeded; and there appeared to them in the distance a great black object, with two fires corresponding with each other in position; whereupon the Emeer Moosa said to the sheikh: "What is this great black object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it; and, lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some artifice. They stopped before it, and endeavoured to discover one of its gates; but they could not; and the Emeer Moosa said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "O sheikh, I see not to this city any gate." The sheikh replied: "O Emeer, thus do I find it described in the Book of Hidden
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resurrection." The party therefore wondered at him, and at the horrible nature of his form; and the Emeer Moosa said: "There is no deity but God!" And the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad said to the efreet: "O thou, I ask thee concerning a thing of which do thou inform us." The efreet replied: "Ask concerning what thou wilt." And the sheikh said: "Are there in this place any of the efreets confined in bottles of brass from the time of Solomon?" He answered: "Yes, in the Sea of El-Karkar, where are a people of the descendants of Noah, whose country the deluge reached not, and they are separated there from the rest of the sons of Adam." "And where," said the sheikh, "is the way to the City of Brass, and the place wherein are the bottles? What distance is there between us and it?" The efreet answered: "It is near." So the party left him, and proceeded; and there appeared to them in the distance a great black object, with two fires corresponding with each other in position; whereupon the Emeer Moosa said to the sheikh: "What is this great black object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it; and, lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some artifice. They stopped before it, and endeavoured to discover one of its gates; but they could not; and the Emeer Moosa said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "O sheikh, I see not to this city any gate." The sheikh replied: "O Emeer, thus do I find it described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that it hath five and twenty gates, and that none of its gates may be opened but from within the city." "And how," said the emeer, "can we contrive to enter it, and divert ourselves with a view of its wonders?" Then the Emeer Moosa ordered one of his young men to mount a camel, and ride round the city, in the hope that he might discover a trace of a gate. So one of his young men mounted, and proceeded around it for two days with their nights, prosecuting his journey with diligence, and not resting; and when
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at his voice. Then he commanded his companions, and they charged upon us all together: we also charged upon them: the fires rose and the smoke ascended, the hearts of the combatants were almost cleft asunder, and the battle raged. The birds fought in the air; and the wild beasts in the dust; and I contended with Ed-Dimiryat until he wearied me and I wearied him; after which my companions and troops were enervated, and my tribes were routed. I flew from before Ed-Dimiryat; but he followed me a journey of three months, until he overtook me. I had fallen down through fatigue, and he rushed upon me, and made me a prisoner. So I said to him: 'By Him who hath exalted thee and abased me, pity me, and take me before Solomon.' But when I came before Solomon, he met me in a most evil manner: he caused this pillar to be brought, and hollowed it, and put me in it, and sealed me with his signet; after which, he chained me, and Ed-Dimiryat conveyed me to this place, where he set me down as thou seest me; and this pillar is my prison until the day of resurrection." The party therefore wondered at him, and at the horrible nature of his form; and the Emeer Moosa said: "There is no deity but God!" And the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad said to the efreet: "O thou, I ask thee concerning a thing of which do thou inform us." The efreet replied: "Ask concerning what thou wilt." And the sheikh said: "Are there in this place any of the efreets confined in bottles of brass from the time of Solomon?" He answered: "Yes, in the Sea of El-Karkar, where are a people of the descendants of Noah, whose country the deluge reached not, and they are separated there from the rest of the sons of Adam." "And where," said the sheikh, "is the way to the City of Brass, and the place wherein are the bottles? What distance is there between us and it?" The efreet answered: "It is near." So the party left him, and proceeded; and there appeared to them in the distance a great black object, with two fires corresponding with each other in position; whereupon the Emeer Moosa said to the sheikh: "What is this great black object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it; and, lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some artifice. They stopped before it, and endeavoured to discover one of its gates; but they could not; and the Emeer Moosa said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "O sheikh, I see not to this city any gate." The sheikh replied: "O Emeer, thus do I find it described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that it hath five and twenty gates, and that none of its gates may be opened but from within the city." "And how," said the emeer, "can we contrive to enter it, and divert ourselves with a view of its wonders?" Then the Emeer Moosa ordered one of his young men to mount a camel, and ride round the city, in the hope that he might discover a trace of a gate. So one of his young men mounted, and proceeded around it for two days with their nights, prosecuting his journey with diligence, and not resting; and when the third day arrived, he came in sight of his companions, and he was astounded at that which he beheld of the extent of the city, and its height. Then he said: "O Emeer, the easiest place in it is this place at which ye have alighted." And thereupon the Emeer Moosa took Talib and the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, and they ascended a mountain opposite the city, and overlooking it; and when they had ascended that mountain, they saw a city than which eyes had not beheld any greater. Its pavilions were lofty, and its domes were shining; its rivers were running, its trees were fruitful, and its gardens bore ripe produce. It was a city with impenetrable gates, empty, still, without a voice but the owl hooting in its quarters, and the raven croaking in its thoroughfare-streets, and bewailing those who had been in it. And the Emeer Moosa fainted with sorrow; his tears ran down upon his cheeks, and he said: "By Allah, indifference to the world is the most appropriate and the most sure course!" And when they came back to the troops, they passed the day devising means of entering the city; and the Emeer Moosa said
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the messenger came to him, and communicated to him the message of the Prophet! But the king said to him: 'There is no way for the accomplishment of this thing that he requireth: therefore inform him that I am coming forth unto him.' Accordingly the messenger returned to Solomon, and gave him the reply. The king then sent to the people of his country, and collected for himself, of the genies that were under his authority, a million; and to these he added others, of the devils that were in the islands and on the mountains; after which he made ready his forces, and opened the armouries, and distributed to them the weapons. And as to the Prophet of God, he disposed his troops, commanding the wild beasts to form themselves into two divisions, on the right of the people and on their left, and commanding the birds to be upon the islands. He ordered them also when the assault should be made, to tear out the eyes of their antagonists with their beaks, and to beat their faces with their wings; and he ordered the wild beasts to tear in pieces their horses; and they replied: 'We hear and obey God and thee, O Prophet of God!' Then Solomon set for himself a couch of alabaster adorned with jewels, and plated with plates of red gold, and he placed his vizier Asaf on the right side, and his vizier, Ed-Dimiryat, on the left side, and the kings of mankind on his right, and the kings of the genies on his left, and the wild beasts and the vipers and serpents before him. "After this, they came upon us all together, and we contended with him in a wide tract for a period of two days; and calamity befell us on the third day, and the decree of God was executed among us. The first who charged upon Solomon were I and my troops; and I said to my companions: 'Keep in your places in the battle-field while I go forth to them and challenge Ed-Dimiryat.' And, lo, he came forth, like a great mountain, his fires flaming, and his smoke ascending; and he approached, and smote me with a flaming fire; and his arrow prevailed over my fire. He cried out at me with a prodigious cry, so that I imagined the heaven had fallen, and the mountains shook at his voice. Then he commanded his companions, and they charged upon us all together: we also charged upon them: the fires rose and the smoke ascended, the hearts of the combatants were almost cleft asunder, and the battle raged. The birds fought in the air; and the wild beasts in the dust; and I contended with Ed-Dimiryat until he wearied me and I wearied him; after which my companions and troops were enervated, and my tribes were routed. I flew from before Ed-Dimiryat; but he followed me a journey of three months, until he overtook me. I had fallen down through fatigue, and he rushed upon me, and made me a prisoner. So I said to him: 'By Him who hath exalted thee and abased me, pity me, and take me before Solomon.' But when I came before Solomon, he met me in a most evil manner: he caused this pillar to be brought, and hollowed it, and put me in it, and sealed me with his signet; after which, he chained me, and Ed-Dimiryat conveyed me to this place, where he set me down as thou seest me; and this pillar is my prison until the day of resurrection." The party therefore wondered at him, and at the horrible nature of his form; and the Emeer Moosa said: "There is no deity but God!" And the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad said to the efreet: "O thou, I ask thee concerning a thing of which do thou inform us." The efreet replied: "Ask concerning what thou wilt." And the sheikh said: "Are there in this place any of the efreets confined in bottles of brass from the time of Solomon?" He answered: "Yes, in the Sea of El-Karkar, where are a people of the descendants of Noah, whose country the deluge reached not, and they are separated there from the rest of the sons of Adam." "And where," said the sheikh, "is the way to the City of Brass, and the place wherein are the bottles? What distance is there between us and it?" The efreet answered: "It is near." So the party left him, and proceeded; and there appeared to them in the distance a great black object, with two fires corresponding with each other in position; whereupon the Emeer Moosa said to the sheikh: "What is this great black object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it; and, lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some artifice. They stopped before it, and endeavoured to discover one of its gates; but they could not; and the Emeer Moosa said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "O sheikh, I see not to this city any gate." The sheikh replied: "O Emeer, thus do I find it described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that it hath five and twenty gates, and that none of its gates may be opened but from within the city." "And how," said the emeer, "can we contrive to enter it, and divert ourselves with a view of its wonders?" Then the Emeer Moosa ordered one of his young men to mount a camel, and ride round the city, in the hope that he might discover a trace of a gate. So one of his young men mounted, and proceeded around it for two days with their nights, prosecuting his journey with diligence, and not resting; and when the third day arrived, he came in sight of his companions, and he was astounded at that which he beheld of the extent of the city, and its height. Then he said: "O Emeer, the easiest place in it is this place at which ye have alighted." And thereupon the Emeer Moosa took Talib and the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, and they ascended a mountain opposite the city, and overlooking it; and when they had ascended that mountain, they saw a city than which eyes had not beheld any greater. Its pavilions were lofty, and its domes were shining; its rivers were running, its trees were fruitful, and its gardens bore ripe produce. It was a city with impenetrable gates, empty, still, without a voice but the owl hooting in its quarters, and the raven croaking in its thoroughfare-streets, and bewailing those who had been in it. And the Emeer Moosa fainted with sorrow; his tears ran down upon his cheeks, and he said: "By Allah, indifference to the world is the most appropriate and the most sure course!" And when they came back to the troops, they passed the day devising means of entering the city; and the Emeer Moosa said to those of his chief officers who were around him: "How shall we contrive to enter the city, that we may see its wonders? Perhaps we shall find in it something by which we may ingratiate ourselves with the Prince of the Faithful." Talib replied: "Let us make a ladder, and mount upon it, and perhaps we shall gain access to the gate from within." And the emeer said: "This is what occurred to my mind, and excellent is the advice." Then he called to the carpenters and blacksmiths, and ordered them to make straight some pieces of wood, and to construct a ladder covered with plates of iron. And they did so, and made it strong. They employed themselves in constructing it a whole month, and many men were occupied in making it. And they set it up and fixed it against the wall, and it proved to be equal to the wall in height, as though it had been made for it before that day. So the Emeer Moosa wondered at it, and said: "God bless you! It seemeth, from the excellence of your work, as though ye had adapted it by measurement to the wall." He then said to the people: "Which of you will ascend this ladder, and mount upon the wall, and walk along it, and contrive means of descending into the city, that he may see how the case is, and then inform us of the mode of opening the gate?" And one of them answered: "I will ascend it, O Emeer, and descend and open the gate." The emeer therefore replied: "Mount. God bless thee!" Accordingly, the man ascended the ladder until he reached the top of it; when he stood, and fixed his eyes toward the city, clapped his hands, and cried out with his loudest voice, saying: "Thou art beautiful!" Then he cast himself down into the city, and was destroyed. So the Emeer Moosa said: "If we do thus with all our companions, there will not remain of them one; and we shall be unable to accomplish our affair, and the affair of the Prince of the Faithful. Depart ye; for we have no concern with this city." But one of them said: "Perhaps another than this may be more steady than he." And a second ascended, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth; and they ceased not
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arrow prevailed over my fire. He cried out at me with a prodigious cry, so that I imagined the heaven had fallen, and the mountains shook at his voice. Then he commanded his companions, and they charged upon us all together: we also charged upon them: the fires rose and the smoke ascended, the hearts of the combatants were almost cleft asunder, and the battle raged. The birds fought in the air; and the wild beasts in the dust; and I contended with Ed-Dimiryat until he wearied me and I wearied him; after which my companions and troops were enervated, and my tribes were routed. I flew from before Ed-Dimiryat; but he followed me a journey of three months, until he overtook me. I had fallen down through fatigue, and he rushed upon me, and made me a prisoner. So I said to him: 'By Him who hath exalted thee and abased me, pity me, and take me before Solomon.' But when I came before Solomon, he met me in a most evil manner: he caused this pillar to be brought, and hollowed it, and put me in it, and sealed me with his signet; after which, he chained me, and Ed-Dimiryat conveyed me to this place, where he set me down as thou seest me; and this pillar is my prison until the day of resurrection." The party therefore wondered at him, and at the horrible nature of his form; and the Emeer Moosa said: "There is no deity but God!" And the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad said to the efreet: "O thou, I ask thee concerning a thing of which do thou inform us." The efreet replied: "Ask concerning what thou wilt." And the sheikh said: "Are there in this place any of the efreets confined in bottles of brass from the time of Solomon?" He answered: "Yes, in the Sea of El-Karkar, where are a people of the descendants of Noah, whose country the deluge reached not, and they are separated there from the rest of the sons of Adam." "And where," said the sheikh, "is the way to the City of Brass, and the place wherein are the bottles? What distance is there between us and it?" The efreet answered: "It is near." So the party left him, and proceeded; and there appeared to them in the distance a great black object, with two fires corresponding with each other in position; whereupon the Emeer Moosa said to the sheikh: "What is this great black object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him:<|quote|>"Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass."</|quote|>They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it; and, lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some artifice. They stopped before it, and endeavoured to discover one of its gates; but they could not; and the Emeer Moosa said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "O sheikh, I see not to this city any gate." The sheikh replied: "O Emeer, thus do I find it described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that it hath five and twenty gates, and that none of its gates may be opened but from within the city." "And how," said the emeer, "can we contrive to enter it, and divert ourselves with a view of its wonders?" Then the Emeer Moosa ordered one of his young men to mount a camel, and ride round the city, in the hope that he might discover a trace of a gate. So one of his young men mounted, and proceeded around it for two days with their nights, prosecuting his journey with diligence, and not resting; and when the third day arrived, he came in sight of his companions, and he was astounded at that which he beheld of the extent of the city, and its height. Then he said: "O Emeer, the easiest place in it is this place at which ye have alighted." And thereupon the Emeer Moosa took Talib and the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, and they ascended a mountain opposite the city, and overlooking it; and when they had ascended that mountain, they saw a city than which eyes had not beheld any greater. Its pavilions were lofty, and its domes were shining; its rivers were running, its trees were fruitful, and its gardens bore ripe produce. It was a city with impenetrable gates, empty, still, without a voice but the owl hooting in its quarters, and the raven croaking in its thoroughfare-streets, and bewailing those who had been in it. And the Emeer Moosa fainted with sorrow; his tears ran down upon his cheeks, and he said: "By Allah, indifference to the world is the most appropriate and the most sure course!" And when they came back to the troops, they passed the day devising means of entering the city; and the Emeer Moosa said to those of his chief officers who were around him: "How shall we contrive to enter
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Arabian Nights (5)
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said Margaret, sinking into one of them.
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No speaker
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motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he
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It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on
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Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?"
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chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we
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get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes. "Miss Schlegel"
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who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?" "Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand--" "those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can t--food, food, for instance. It depends." "I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn t like to think that you--" He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret s head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more--how should one put it?--more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. "I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes. "Miss Schlegel" "--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was
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to say--" "Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas--just imagine it!--rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them." "Your sister always likes her little joke." "She says Yes, my brother says `No, to Ducie Street. It s no fun helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you." "You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall never believe it." Margaret laughed. But she was--quite as unpractical. She could not concentrate on details. Parliament, the Thames, the irresponsive chauffeur, would flash into the field of house-hunting, and all demand some comment or response. It is impossible to see modern life steadily and see it whole, and she had chosen to see it whole. Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. He never bothered over the mysterious or the private. The Thames might run inland from the sea, the chauffeur might conceal all passion and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. They knew their own business, and he knew his. Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke, but a stimulus, and banished morbidity. Some twenty years her senior, he preserved a gift that she supposed herself to have already lost--not youth s creative power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure that it was a very pleasant world. His complexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, the thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, whether they were turned towards the slums or towards the stars. Some day--in the millennium--there may be no need for his type. At present, homage is due to it from those who think themselves superior, and who possibly are. "At all events you responded to my telegram promptly," he remarked. "Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it." "I m glad you don t despise the goods of this world." "Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that." "I am glad, very glad," he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him. "There is so much cant talked in would-be intellectual circles. I am glad you don t share it. Self-denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can t stand those people who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?" "Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand--" "those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can t--food, food, for instance. It depends." "I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn t like to think that you--" He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret s head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more--how should one put it?--more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. "I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes. "Miss Schlegel" "--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it s you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn t I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There s just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. She thrilled with happiness ere she reached her house. Others had loved her in the past, if one apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but the others had been "ninnies"--young men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better. And she had often loved, too, but only so far as the facts of sex demanded: mere yearnings for the masculine sex to be dismissed for what they were worth, with a sigh. Never before had her personality been touched. She was not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of any standing should take her seriously. As she sat, trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if a tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat: "But I ve been through this sort of thing before." She had never been through it; the big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him in return. She would come to no decision yet. "Oh, sir, this is so sudden"--that prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his; she must talk it over judicially with Helen.
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I know a good thing when I see it." "I m glad you don t despise the goods of this world." "Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that." "I am glad, very glad," he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him. "There is so much cant talked in would-be intellectual circles. I am glad you don t share it. Self-denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can t stand those people who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?" "Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand--" "those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can t--food, food, for instance. It depends." "I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn t like to think that you--" He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret s head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more--how should one put it?--more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. "I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!"<|quote|>said Margaret, sinking into one of them.</|quote|>"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes. "Miss Schlegel" "--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I
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Howards End
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"Stop a bit,"
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The Invisible Man
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grass. Something moved near him.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>said a Voice, and Adye
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seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand
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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.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>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
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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. "There s no way of climbing up here?" "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.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>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
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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. "There s no way of climbing up here?" "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.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>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 far. Give a man a chance." "You go back to the house. I tell you flatly I will not promise anything." Adye s decision seemed suddenly made. He turned towards the house, walking slowly with his hands behind him. Kemp watched him puzzled. The revolver vanished, flashed again into sight, vanished again, and became evident on a closer scrutiny as a little dark object following Adye. Then things happened very quickly. Adye leapt backwards, swung around, clutched at this little object, missed it, threw up his hands and fell forward on his face, leaving a little puff of blue in the air. Kemp did not hear the sound of the shot. Adye writhed, raised himself on one arm, fell forward, and lay still. For a space Kemp remained staring at the quiet carelessness of Adye s attitude. The afternoon was very hot and still, nothing seemed stirring in all the world save a couple of yellow butterflies chasing each other through the shrubbery between the house and the road gate. Adye lay on the lawn near the gate. The blinds of all the villas down the hill-road were drawn, but in one little green summer-house was a white figure, apparently an old man asleep. Kemp scrutinised the surroundings of the house for a glimpse of the revolver, but it had vanished. His eyes came back to Adye. The game was opening well. Then came a ringing and knocking at the front door, that grew at last tumultuous, but pursuant to Kemp s instructions the servants had locked themselves into their rooms. This was followed by a silence. Kemp sat listening and then began peering cautiously out of the three windows, one after another. He went to the staircase head and stood listening uneasily. He
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"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. "There s no way of climbing up here?" "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.<|quote|>"Stop a bit,"</|quote|>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
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The Invisible Man
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"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."
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Catherine Morland
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after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure
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"You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he
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"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady
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with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very." "He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?" "Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father."
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whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very." "He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?" "Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all
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together, noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very." "He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?" "Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased
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most delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven s sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him." "No," said Catherine, "he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere." "Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about it." "No, indeed I should not." "Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by for the world." "Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my head." Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to James. Catherine s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very." "He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?" "Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys. "Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine," whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing that among such a
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evening to James. Catherine s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence,<|quote|>"how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."</|quote|>"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very." "He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?" "Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more,
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Northanger Abbey
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said Diana.
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No speaker
|
the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm."
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embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful
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still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?" "Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe
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Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?" "Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line," ?_There's Another_, not _a sister_,' "he looked right down at you." "Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I
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explain and illustrate "How Sockery Set a Hen" Anne laughed until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's oration over the dead body of Caesar in the most heart-stirring tones--looking at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence--Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way. Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?" "Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line," ?_There's Another_, not _a sister_,' "he looked right down at you." "Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first." The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment. And then--something--moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents: "Merciful goodness!" Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one
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of sleigh bells and distant laughter, that seemed like the mirth of wood elves, came from every quarter. "Oh, Diana," breathed Anne, squeezing Diana's mittened hand under the fur robe, "isn't it all like a beautiful dream? Do I really look the same as usual? I feel so different that it seems to me it must show in my looks." "You look awfully nice," said Diana, who having just received a compliment from one of her cousins, felt that she ought to pass it on. "You've got the loveliest color." The program that night was a series of "thrills" for at least one listener in the audience, and, as Anne assured Diana, every succeeding thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in a new pink-silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white throat and real carnations in her hair--rumor whispered that the master had sent all the way to town for them for her--"climbed the slimy ladder, dark without one ray of light," Anne shivered in luxurious sympathy; when the choir sang "Far Above the Gentle Daisies" Anne gazed at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels; when Sam Sloane proceeded to explain and illustrate "How Sockery Set a Hen" Anne laughed until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's oration over the dead body of Caesar in the most heart-stirring tones--looking at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence--Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way. Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?" "Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line," ?_There's Another_, not _a sister_,' "he looked right down at you." "Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first." The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment. And then--something--moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents: "Merciful goodness!" Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs. "Oh, who was it--_what_ was it?" whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with cold and fright. "It was Aunt Josephine," said Diana, gasping with laughter. "Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she will be furious. It's dreadful--it's really dreadful--but did you ever know anything so funny, Anne?" "Who is your Aunt Josephine?" "She's father's aunt and she lives in Charlottetown. She's awfully old--seventy anyhow--and I don't believe she was _ever_ a little girl. We were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She's awfully prim and proper and she'll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we'll have to sleep with Minnie May--and you can't think how she kicks." Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls. "Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come and that you would have to go upstairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I hope you didn't
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arithmetic. Anne's consequent humiliation was less than it might have been, however, in view of the concert and the spare-room bed. She and Diana talked so constantly about it all day that with a stricter teacher than Mr. Phillips dire disgrace must inevitably have been their portion. Anne felt that she could not have borne it if she had not been going to the concert, for nothing else was discussed that day in school. The Avonlea Debating Club, which met fortnightly all winter, had had several smaller free entertainments; but this was to be a big affair, admission ten cents, in aid of the library. The Avonlea young people had been practicing for weeks, and all the scholars were especially interested in it by reason of older brothers and sisters who were going to take part. Everybody in school over nine years of age expected to go, except Carrie Sloane, whose father shared Marilla's opinions about small girls going out to night concerts. Carrie Sloane cried into her grammar all the afternoon and felt that life was not worth living. For Anne the real excitement began with the dismissal of school and increased therefrom in crescendo until it reached to a crash of positive ecstasy in the concert itself. They had a "perfectly elegant tea;" and then came the delicious occupation of dressing in Diana's little room upstairs. Diana did Anne's front hair in the new pompadour style and Anne tied Diana's bows with the especial knack she possessed; and they experimented with at least half a dozen different ways of arranging their back hair. At last they were ready, cheeks scarlet and eyes glowing with excitement. True, Anne could not help a little pang when she contrasted her plain black tam and shapeless, tight-sleeved, homemade gray-cloth coat with Diana's jaunty fur cap and smart little jacket. But she remembered in time that she had an imagination and could use it. Then Diana's cousins, the Murrays from Newbridge, came; they all crowded into the big pung sleigh, among straw and furry robes. Anne reveled in the drive to the hall, slipping along over the satin-smooth roads with the snow crisping under the runners. There was a magnificent sunset, and the snowy hills and deep-blue water of the St. Lawrence Gulf seemed to rim in the splendor like a huge bowl of pearl and sapphire brimmed with wine and fire. Tinkles of sleigh bells and distant laughter, that seemed like the mirth of wood elves, came from every quarter. "Oh, Diana," breathed Anne, squeezing Diana's mittened hand under the fur robe, "isn't it all like a beautiful dream? Do I really look the same as usual? I feel so different that it seems to me it must show in my looks." "You look awfully nice," said Diana, who having just received a compliment from one of her cousins, felt that she ought to pass it on. "You've got the loveliest color." The program that night was a series of "thrills" for at least one listener in the audience, and, as Anne assured Diana, every succeeding thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in a new pink-silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white throat and real carnations in her hair--rumor whispered that the master had sent all the way to town for them for her--"climbed the slimy ladder, dark without one ray of light," Anne shivered in luxurious sympathy; when the choir sang "Far Above the Gentle Daisies" Anne gazed at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels; when Sam Sloane proceeded to explain and illustrate "How Sockery Set a Hen" Anne laughed until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's oration over the dead body of Caesar in the most heart-stirring tones--looking at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence--Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way. Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?" "Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line," ?_There's Another_, not _a sister_,' "he looked right down at you." "Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first." The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment. And then--something--moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents: "Merciful goodness!" Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs. "Oh, who was it--_what_ was it?" whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with cold and fright. "It was Aunt Josephine," said Diana, gasping with laughter. "Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she will be furious. It's dreadful--it's really dreadful--but did you ever know anything so funny, Anne?" "Who is your Aunt Josephine?" "She's father's aunt and she lives in Charlottetown. She's awfully old--seventy anyhow--and I don't believe she was _ever_ a little girl. We were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She's awfully prim and proper and she'll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we'll have to sleep with Minnie May--and you can't think how she kicks." Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls. "Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come and that you would have to go upstairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I hope you didn't disturb your aunt, Diana." Diana preserved a discreet silence, but she and Anne exchanged furtive smiles of guilty amusement across the table. Anne hurried home after breakfast and so remained in blissful ignorance of the disturbance which presently resulted in the Barry household until the late afternoon, when she went down to Mrs. Lynde's on an errand for Marilla. "So you and Diana nearly frightened poor old Miss Barry to death last night?" said Mrs. Lynde severely, but with a twinkle in her eye. "Mrs. Barry was here a few minutes ago on her way to Carmody. She's feeling real worried over it. Old Miss Barry was in a terrible temper when she got up this morning--and Josephine Barry's temper is no joke, I can tell you that. She wouldn't speak to Diana at all." "It wasn't Diana's fault," said Anne contritely. "It was mine. I suggested racing to see who would get into bed first." "I knew it!" said Mrs. Lynde, with the exultation of a correct guesser. "I knew that idea came out of your head. Well, it's made a nice lot of trouble, that's what. Old Miss Barry came out to stay for a month, but she declares she won't stay another day and is going right back to town tomorrow, Sunday and all as it is. She'd have gone today if they could have taken her. She had promised to pay for a quarter's music lessons for Diana, but now she is determined to do nothing at all for such a tomboy. Oh, I guess they had a lively time of it there this morning. The Barrys must feel cut up. Old Miss Barry is rich and they'd like to keep on the good side of her. Of course, Mrs. Barry didn't say just that to me, but I'm a pretty good judge of human nature, that's what." "I'm such an unlucky girl," mourned Anne. "I'm always getting into scrapes myself and getting my best friends--people I'd shed my heart's blood for--into them too. Can you tell me why it is so, Mrs. Lynde?" "It's because you're too heedless and impulsive, child, that's what. You never stop to think--whatever comes into your head to say or do you say or do it without a moment's reflection." "Oh, but that's the best of it," protested Anne. "Something just flashes into your mind, so exciting, and you must
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and, as Anne assured Diana, every succeeding thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in a new pink-silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white throat and real carnations in her hair--rumor whispered that the master had sent all the way to town for them for her--"climbed the slimy ladder, dark without one ray of light," Anne shivered in luxurious sympathy; when the choir sang "Far Above the Gentle Daisies" Anne gazed at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels; when Sam Sloane proceeded to explain and illustrate "How Sockery Set a Hen" Anne laughed until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's oration over the dead body of Caesar in the most heart-stirring tones--looking at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence--Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way. Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here,"<|quote|>said Diana.</|quote|>"It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?" "Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line," ?_There's Another_, not _a sister_,' "he looked right down at you." "Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first." The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment. And then--something--moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents: "Merciful goodness!" Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs. "Oh, who was it--_what_ was it?" whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with cold and fright. "It was Aunt Josephine," said Diana, gasping with laughter. "Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she will be furious. It's dreadful--it's really dreadful--but did you ever know anything so funny, Anne?" "Who is your Aunt Josephine?" "She's father's aunt and she lives in Charlottetown. She's awfully old--seventy anyhow--and I don't believe she was _ever_ a little girl. We were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She's awfully prim and proper and she'll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we'll have to sleep with Minnie May--and you can't think how she kicks." Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls. "Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come and that you would have to go upstairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I hope you didn't disturb your aunt, Diana." Diana
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"
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Colonel Ducroix
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intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically,
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of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it
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in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon
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rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no
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are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem
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so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we
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sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we going to do?" asked the Professor. "At this moment," said Syme, with a scientific detachment, "I think we are going to smash into a lamppost." The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had crawled out from under a chaos of metal, and a tall lean lamp-post that had stood up straight on the edge of the marine parade stood out, bent and twisted, like the branch of a broken tree. "Well, we smashed something," said the Professor, with a faint smile. "That's some comfort." "You're becoming an anarchist," said Syme, dusting his clothes with his instinct of daintiness. "Everyone is," said Ratcliffe. As they spoke, the white-haired horseman and his followers came thundering from above, and almost at the same moment a dark string of men ran shouting along the sea-front. Syme snatched a sword, and took it in his teeth; he stuck two others under his arm-pits, took a fourth in his left hand and the lantern in his right, and leapt off the high parade on to the beach below. The others leapt after him, with a common acceptance of such decisive action, leaving the debris and the gathering mob above them. "We have one more chance," said Syme, taking the steel out of his mouth. "Whatever all this pandemonium means, I suppose the police station will help us. We can't get there, for they hold the way. But there's a pier or breakwater runs out into the sea just here, which we could defend longer than anything else, like Horatius and his bridge. We must defend it till the Gendarmerie turn out. Keep after me." They followed him as he went crunching down the beach, and in a second or two their boots broke not on the sea gravel, but on broad, flat stones. They marched down a long, low jetty, running out in one arm into the dim, boiling sea, and when they came to the end of it they felt that they had come to the end of their story. They turned and faced the town. That town was transfigured with uproar. All along the high parade from which they had just descended was a dark and roaring stream of humanity, with tossing arms and fiery faces, groping and glaring towards them. The long dark line was dotted with torches and
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two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried,<|quote|>"the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head"</|quote|>"Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"
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Tony Last
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the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is
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was at the top of the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is it a sign of poise
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means," said Tony. "D'you know, I once saw a questionnaire that people had to fill in when they applied for a job in an American firm, and one of the things they had to answer was "Have you poise?"" Brenda was at the top of the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is it a sign of poise to think you have it?" "Just sit quiet here while I sling your hammock." "Yes, I'll sit here with Brenda. I am so glad she could come. She must have caught the three-eighteen." She was with him all that night
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back from London, huddled over her bowl of bread and milk. Dr Messinger steered the boat in to the side. They nearly capsized as he helped Tony out. Brenda got ashore without assistance. She stepped out in her delicate, competent way, keeping the balance of the boat. "That's what poise means," said Tony. "D'you know, I once saw a questionnaire that people had to fill in when they applied for a job in an American firm, and one of the things they had to answer was "Have you poise?"" Brenda was at the top of the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is it a sign of poise to think you have it?" "Just sit quiet here while I sling your hammock." "Yes, I'll sit here with Brenda. I am so glad she could come. She must have caught the three-eighteen." She was with him all that night and all the next day. He talked to her ceaselessly but her replies were rare and enigmatic. On the succeeding evening he had another fit of sweating. Dr Messinger kept a large fire burning by the hammock and wrapped Tony in his own blanket. An hour before dawn Tony fell
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he realized that it was a human being. "So the Indians came back?" he said. "Yes." "I knew they would. Silly of them to be scared by a toy. I suppose the others are following." "Yes, I expect so. Try and sit still." "Damned fool, being frightened of a toy mouse," Tony said derisively to the woman amidships. Then he saw that it was Brenda. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see it was you. You wouldn't be frightened of a toy mouse." But she did not answer him. She sat as she used often to sit when she came back from London, huddled over her bowl of bread and milk. Dr Messinger steered the boat in to the side. They nearly capsized as he helped Tony out. Brenda got ashore without assistance. She stepped out in her delicate, competent way, keeping the balance of the boat. "That's what poise means," said Tony. "D'you know, I once saw a questionnaire that people had to fill in when they applied for a job in an American firm, and one of the things they had to answer was "Have you poise?"" Brenda was at the top of the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is it a sign of poise to think you have it?" "Just sit quiet here while I sling your hammock." "Yes, I'll sit here with Brenda. I am so glad she could come. She must have caught the three-eighteen." She was with him all that night and all the next day. He talked to her ceaselessly but her replies were rare and enigmatic. On the succeeding evening he had another fit of sweating. Dr Messinger kept a large fire burning by the hammock and wrapped Tony in his own blanket. An hour before dawn Tony fell asleep and when he awoke Brenda had gone. "You're down to normal again." "Thank God. I've been pretty ill, haven't I? I can't remember much." Dr Messinger had made something of a camp. He had chopped a square clear of undergrowth, the size of a small room. Their two hammocks hung on opposite sides of it. The stores were all ashore, arranged in an orderly pile on the tarpaulin. "How d'you feel?" "Grand," said Tony, but when he got out of his hammock he found he could not stand without help. "Of course, I haven't eaten anything. I expect it
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were filled with a muffled sound as though he were holding those shells to them in which, he had been told in childhood, one could hear the beat of the sea. "We've got to go on," said Dr Messinger. "We can't be far from a village now." "I feel awful. Wouldn't it be better to wait a day till I am perfectly fit again?" "It's no good waiting. We've got to get on. D'you think you can manage to get into the canoe?" Dr Messinger knew that Tony was in for a long bout. For the first few hours of that day Tony lay limp in the bows. They had shifted the stores so that he could lie full length. Then the fever came on again and his teeth chattered. He sat up and crouched with his head in his knees, shaking all over; only his forehead and cheeks were burning hot under the noon sun. There was still no sign of a village. * * * * * It was late in the afternoon when he first saw Brenda. For some time he had been staring intently at the odd shape amidships where the stores had been piled; then he realized that it was a human being. "So the Indians came back?" he said. "Yes." "I knew they would. Silly of them to be scared by a toy. I suppose the others are following." "Yes, I expect so. Try and sit still." "Damned fool, being frightened of a toy mouse," Tony said derisively to the woman amidships. Then he saw that it was Brenda. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see it was you. You wouldn't be frightened of a toy mouse." But she did not answer him. She sat as she used often to sit when she came back from London, huddled over her bowl of bread and milk. Dr Messinger steered the boat in to the side. They nearly capsized as he helped Tony out. Brenda got ashore without assistance. She stepped out in her delicate, competent way, keeping the balance of the boat. "That's what poise means," said Tony. "D'you know, I once saw a questionnaire that people had to fill in when they applied for a job in an American firm, and one of the things they had to answer was "Have you poise?"" Brenda was at the top of the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is it a sign of poise to think you have it?" "Just sit quiet here while I sling your hammock." "Yes, I'll sit here with Brenda. I am so glad she could come. She must have caught the three-eighteen." She was with him all that night and all the next day. He talked to her ceaselessly but her replies were rare and enigmatic. On the succeeding evening he had another fit of sweating. Dr Messinger kept a large fire burning by the hammock and wrapped Tony in his own blanket. An hour before dawn Tony fell asleep and when he awoke Brenda had gone. "You're down to normal again." "Thank God. I've been pretty ill, haven't I? I can't remember much." Dr Messinger had made something of a camp. He had chopped a square clear of undergrowth, the size of a small room. Their two hammocks hung on opposite sides of it. The stores were all ashore, arranged in an orderly pile on the tarpaulin. "How d'you feel?" "Grand," said Tony, but when he got out of his hammock he found he could not stand without help. "Of course, I haven't eaten anything. I expect it will be a day or two before I'm really well." Dr Messinger said nothing, but strained the tea clear of leaves by pouring it slowly from one mug into another; he stirred into it a large spoonful of condensed milk. "See if you can drink this." Tony drank it with pleasure and ate some biscuits. "Are we going on to-day?" he asked. "We'll think about it." He took the mugs down to the bank and washed them in the river. When he came back he said, "I think I'd better explain things. It's no use your thinking you are cured because you are out of fever for one day. That's the way it goes. One day fever and one day normal. It may take a week or it may take much longer. That's a thing we've got to face. I can't risk taking you in the canoe. You nearly upset us several times the day before yesterday." "I thought there was someone there I knew." "You thought a lot of things. It'll go on like that. Meanwhile we've provisions for about ten days. There's no immediate anxiety there but it's a thing to remember. Besides, what you need is a
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walls of forest on either side, towering up from the undergrowth to their blossoming crown a hundred or more feet above them. Sometimes they came to a stretch of water scattered with fallen petals and floated among them, moving scarcely less slowly than they, as though resting in a flowering meadow. At night they spread their tarpaulin on stretches of dry beach, or hung their hammocks in the bush. Only the cabouri fly and rare, immobile alligators menaced the peace of their days. They kept a constant scrutiny of the banks but saw no sign of human life. Then Tony developed fever. It came on him quite suddenly, during the fourth afternoon. At their mid-day halt he was in complete health and shot a small deer that came down to drink on the opposite bank; an hour later he was shivering so violently that he had to lay down his paddle; his head was flaming with heat, his body and limbs were frigid; by sunset he was slightly delirious. Dr Messinger took his temperature and found that it was a hundred and four degrees, Fahrenheit. He gave him twenty-five grains of quinine and lit a fire so close to his hammock that by morning it was singed and blacked with smoke. He told Tony to keep wrapped up in his blanket, but at intervals throughout that night he woke from sleep to find himself running with sweat; he was consumed with thirst and drank mug after mug of river water. Neither that evening nor next morning was he able to eat anything. But next morning his temperature was down again. He felt weak and exhausted but he was able to keep steady in his place and paddle a little. "It was just a passing attack, wasn't it?" he said. "I shall be perfectly fit to-morrow, shan't I?" "I hope so," said Dr Messinger. At mid-day Tony drank some cocoa and ate a cupful of rice. "I feel grand," he said. "Good." That night the fever came on again. They were camping on a sand bank. Dr Messinger heated stones and put them under Tony's feet and in the small of his back. He was awake most of the night fuelling the fire and refilling Tony's mug with water. At dawn Tony slept for an hour and woke feeling slightly better; he was taking frequent doses of quinine and his ears were filled with a muffled sound as though he were holding those shells to them in which, he had been told in childhood, one could hear the beat of the sea. "We've got to go on," said Dr Messinger. "We can't be far from a village now." "I feel awful. Wouldn't it be better to wait a day till I am perfectly fit again?" "It's no good waiting. We've got to get on. D'you think you can manage to get into the canoe?" Dr Messinger knew that Tony was in for a long bout. For the first few hours of that day Tony lay limp in the bows. They had shifted the stores so that he could lie full length. Then the fever came on again and his teeth chattered. He sat up and crouched with his head in his knees, shaking all over; only his forehead and cheeks were burning hot under the noon sun. There was still no sign of a village. * * * * * It was late in the afternoon when he first saw Brenda. For some time he had been staring intently at the odd shape amidships where the stores had been piled; then he realized that it was a human being. "So the Indians came back?" he said. "Yes." "I knew they would. Silly of them to be scared by a toy. I suppose the others are following." "Yes, I expect so. Try and sit still." "Damned fool, being frightened of a toy mouse," Tony said derisively to the woman amidships. Then he saw that it was Brenda. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see it was you. You wouldn't be frightened of a toy mouse." But she did not answer him. She sat as she used often to sit when she came back from London, huddled over her bowl of bread and milk. Dr Messinger steered the boat in to the side. They nearly capsized as he helped Tony out. Brenda got ashore without assistance. She stepped out in her delicate, competent way, keeping the balance of the boat. "That's what poise means," said Tony. "D'you know, I once saw a questionnaire that people had to fill in when they applied for a job in an American firm, and one of the things they had to answer was "Have you poise?"" Brenda was at the top of the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is it a sign of poise to think you have it?" "Just sit quiet here while I sling your hammock." "Yes, I'll sit here with Brenda. I am so glad she could come. She must have caught the three-eighteen." She was with him all that night and all the next day. He talked to her ceaselessly but her replies were rare and enigmatic. On the succeeding evening he had another fit of sweating. Dr Messinger kept a large fire burning by the hammock and wrapped Tony in his own blanket. An hour before dawn Tony fell asleep and when he awoke Brenda had gone. "You're down to normal again." "Thank God. I've been pretty ill, haven't I? I can't remember much." Dr Messinger had made something of a camp. He had chopped a square clear of undergrowth, the size of a small room. Their two hammocks hung on opposite sides of it. The stores were all ashore, arranged in an orderly pile on the tarpaulin. "How d'you feel?" "Grand," said Tony, but when he got out of his hammock he found he could not stand without help. "Of course, I haven't eaten anything. I expect it will be a day or two before I'm really well." Dr Messinger said nothing, but strained the tea clear of leaves by pouring it slowly from one mug into another; he stirred into it a large spoonful of condensed milk. "See if you can drink this." Tony drank it with pleasure and ate some biscuits. "Are we going on to-day?" he asked. "We'll think about it." He took the mugs down to the bank and washed them in the river. When he came back he said, "I think I'd better explain things. It's no use your thinking you are cured because you are out of fever for one day. That's the way it goes. One day fever and one day normal. It may take a week or it may take much longer. That's a thing we've got to face. I can't risk taking you in the canoe. You nearly upset us several times the day before yesterday." "I thought there was someone there I knew." "You thought a lot of things. It'll go on like that. Meanwhile we've provisions for about ten days. There's no immediate anxiety there but it's a thing to remember. Besides, what you need is a roof over your head and constant nursing. If only we were at a village...." "I'm afraid I'm being a great nuisance." "That's not the point. The thing is to find what is best for us to do." But Tony felt too tired to think; he dozed for an hour or so. When he awoke, Dr Messinger was cutting back the bush farther. "I'm going to fix up the tarpaulin as a roof." (He had marked this place on his map _Temporary Emergency Base Camp_.) Tony watched him listlessly. Presently he said, "Look here, why don't you leave me here and go down the river for help?" "I thought of that. It's too big a risk." That afternoon Brenda was back at Tony's side and he was shivering and tossing in his hammock. * * * * * When he was next able to observe things, Tony noted that there was a tarpaulin over his head, slung to the tree-trunks. He asked, "How long have we been here?" "Only three days." "What time is it now?" "Getting on for ten in the morning." "I feel awful." Dr Messinger gave him some soup. "I am going downstream for the day," he said, "to see if there's any sign of a village. I hate leaving you but it's a chance worth taking. I shall be able to get a long way in the canoe now it's empty. Lie quiet. Don't move from the hammock. I shall be back before night. I hope with some Indians to help." "All right," said Tony and fell asleep. Dr Messinger went down to the river's edge and untied the canoe; he brought with him a rifle, a drinking cup and a day's provisions. He sat in the stern and pushed out from the bank; the current carried the bows down and in a few strokes of the paddle he was in midstream. The sun was high and its reflection in the water dazzled and scorched him; he paddled on with regular, leisurely strokes; he was travelling fast. For a mile's stretch the river narrowed and the water raced so that all he had to do was to trail the blade of the paddle as a rudder; then the walls of forest on either side of him fell back and he drifted into a great open lake, where he had to work heavily to keep in motion; all
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no sign of a village. * * * * * It was late in the afternoon when he first saw Brenda. For some time he had been staring intently at the odd shape amidships where the stores had been piled; then he realized that it was a human being. "So the Indians came back?" he said. "Yes." "I knew they would. Silly of them to be scared by a toy. I suppose the others are following." "Yes, I expect so. Try and sit still." "Damned fool, being frightened of a toy mouse," Tony said derisively to the woman amidships. Then he saw that it was Brenda. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see it was you. You wouldn't be frightened of a toy mouse." But she did not answer him. She sat as she used often to sit when she came back from London, huddled over her bowl of bread and milk. Dr Messinger steered the boat in to the side. They nearly capsized as he helped Tony out. Brenda got ashore without assistance. She stepped out in her delicate, competent way, keeping the balance of the boat. "That's what poise means," said Tony. "D'you know, I once saw a questionnaire that people had to fill in when they applied for a job in an American firm, and one of the things they had to answer was "Have you poise?"" Brenda was at the top of the bank waiting for him.<|quote|>"What was so absurd about the question was that they only had the applicant's word for it,"</|quote|>he explained laboriously. "I mean--is it a sign of poise to think you have it?" "Just sit quiet here while I sling your hammock." "Yes, I'll sit here with Brenda. I am so glad she could come. She must have caught the three-eighteen." She was with him all that night and all the next day. He talked to her ceaselessly but her replies were rare and enigmatic. On the succeeding evening he had another fit of sweating. Dr Messinger kept a large fire burning by the hammock and wrapped Tony in his own blanket. An hour before dawn Tony fell asleep and when he awoke Brenda had gone. "You're down to normal again." "Thank God. I've been pretty ill, haven't I? I can't remember much." Dr Messinger had made something of a camp. He had chopped a square clear of undergrowth, the size of a small room. Their two hammocks hung on opposite sides of it. The stores were all ashore, arranged in an orderly pile on the tarpaulin. "How d'you feel?" "Grand," said Tony, but when he got out of his hammock he found he could not stand without help. "Of course, I haven't eaten anything. I expect it will be a day or two before I'm really well." Dr Messinger said nothing, but strained the tea clear of leaves by pouring it slowly from one mug into another; he stirred into it a large spoonful of condensed milk. "See if you can drink this." Tony drank it with pleasure and ate some biscuits. "Are we going on to-day?" he asked. "We'll think about it." He took the mugs down to the bank and washed them in the river. When he came back he said, "I think I'd better explain things. It's no use your thinking you are cured because you are out of fever for one day. That's the way it goes. One day fever and one day normal. It may take a week or it may take much longer. That's a thing we've got to face. I can't risk taking you in the canoe. You nearly upset us several times the day before yesterday." "I thought there was someone there I knew." "You thought a lot of things. It'll go on like that. Meanwhile we've provisions for about ten days. There's no immediate anxiety there but it's a thing to remember. Besides, what you need is a roof over your head and constant nursing. If only we were at a village...." "I'm afraid I'm being a great nuisance." "That's not the point. The thing is to find what is best for us to do." But Tony felt too tired to think; he dozed for an hour or so. When he awoke, Dr Messinger was cutting back the bush farther. "I'm going to fix up the tarpaulin as a roof." (He had marked this place on his map _Temporary Emergency Base Camp_.) Tony watched him listlessly. Presently he said, "Look here, why don't you leave me here and go down the river for help?" "I thought of that. It's too big a risk." That afternoon Brenda was back at Tony's side and he was shivering and tossing in his hammock. * * * * * When he was next able to observe things, Tony noted that there was a tarpaulin over his head, slung to the tree-trunks. He asked, "How long have we been here?" "Only three days." "What time is it now?" "Getting on for ten in the morning." "I feel awful." Dr Messinger gave him some soup. "I am going downstream
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A Handful Of Dust
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"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."
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Charlotte
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abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much
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Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the
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declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased
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an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put
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am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;
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man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful! My love," applying to her husband, "don t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer; "Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know." "Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it
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much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful! My love," applying to her husband, "don t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer; "Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know." "Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon
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said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful! My love," applying to her husband, "don t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me."<|quote|>"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."</|quote|>She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer; "Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my
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